


Though the Heavens Fall

by GhyllWyne



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF John, Bedside Vigils, Canon Compliant, Case Fic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Molly out-deduces Sherlock, Murder Mystery, Post-Something Broken, Post-The Empty Hearse, Serial Killers, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Worried John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-04 08:15:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 43,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4130781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhyllWyne/pseuds/GhyllWyne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Starts on Christmas Day after TEH.  Sherlock takes on a case from an unexpected source. Where it leads, not even Sherlock could have anticipated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Karma's a Bitch

* * * * *  
Christmas Day  
Royal London Hospital

The decorated Christmas tree next to the nurses' station bothers him, and he wonders why it's there. Surely, he can't be the only visitor who finds it painfully inappropriate, like a clown at a funeral 

When he reaches his wife's room, he finds her doctor standing next to her bed. There are few reasons he would be here on Christmas morning instead of home with his family, none of them good.

"Please have a seat, Mr. Anderson," he begins in a voice that James knows well. He's used it himself more times than he cares to remember. Professional distance, sympathy on hold. Definitely bad news.

James walks to the chair next to Miranda's bed where he's spent 18 out of every 24 hours since she was admitted five weeks ago, comatose but stubbornly clinging to life. He lowers himself into the seat and automatically takes her hand.

The doctor slides the other chair over and places it facing James. He sits down and leans forward, elbows on his knees and hands clasped together. He takes a breath and lets it out slowly. "Mr. Anderson, I know you understand the medical implications of your wife's cardiac arrest last night. Being a medical professional, you know that there is always a risk of neurological damage in such an extended resuscitation. This was her third such episode in less than a week, and I'm afraid we're very close to the end of our options."

James nods. He had watched them pull her back from the brink, knowing that it was wrong. Knowing she would want him to let her go because this isn't the way it was supposed to be. But knowing and accepting are two very different things. "Are you trying to tell me there's no hope?"

The doctor looks down at his hands for a moment, then back at James. "The EEG shows no brain activity at all now. I'm very sorry."

James nods again. "The next crisis will be the last." If she were on a respirator, he could let them disconnect that support, and it would be over in minutes. "I don't want the feeding discontinued," he says firmly. She won't live long enough to suffer, but he has this irrational fear of her being hungry in her final hours when he knows that she no longer feels anything at all.

"Of course." The doctor hesitates. "You agree then that we should not attempt resuscitation the next time?"

His voice is nearly gone. "Yes."

"Is there someone we can call for you? Someone to be with you now?"

"I have a brother. We're not close." He frowns, shaking his head slightly. "He doesn't even know I'm married."

"There are grief counselors here at the hospital. You shouldn't be alone." The doctor stands up. "There are some papers you will need to sign. I'll send someone in to speak with you in a bit." He places a hand on James's shoulder. "I'm very sorry, Mr. Anderson." He heads for the door.

"Merry Christmas," James whispers.

The doctor stops and turns, lips pressed tightly. He nods, then closes the door softly behind him.

This isn't what was supposed to happen to them. They were meant to spend their lives together, and he had known it from the moment they met. They were practically finishing each other's sentences by the end of their first date. He's never known anyone like her, and he never will again. To have this happen to someone like Miranda is beyond injustice. To think that the man who did this to her will never be punished is unbearable. 

His brother was his last hope, but he no longer works with Scotland Yard, a fact he had discovered last night when he'd tried to reach him there. He knew he had a mobile number written down somewhere, but he'd searched the flat for hours last night without running across it. He had finally found it scribbled on the back of a business card buried in his wallet just before he left home to see Miranda this morning.

He slips the card from his pocket and taps the number into his phone. Before he presses the call button, he looks up at Miranda and smiles. "Philip would have loved you, too." 

He squeezes her hand and presses 'call'.

* * * *

Christmas is for children and the parents of children still young enough to believe in Santa Claus, or Father Christmas, or whatever local name is applied to the specter who rewards the worthy and denies gifts to the unworthy, as if reward naturally follows good, and punishment inevitably befalls evil. Not, he has learned, without intervention, and not always then. Especially if the intervention doesn't come from him.

But he had loved it once, briefly and with an intensity that made the disappointment all the more bitter when he learned the truth. 

John had brought Christmas back. 

_"Not everything is a puzzle for you to solve, Sherlock. Sometimes getting together with friends is just that. Lestrade doesn't need to bring a murder case with him every time he comes by. It's an excuse to be together. Don't analyze it."_

Right now, Sherlock is standing with his back to the window, watching his friends. Not the avatars that helped keep him sane for the past two years. The real, living people who care about him and each other. The people he cares about. He still doesn't feel comfortable participating in the idle chit chat, but he's come to appreciate that it has its place, and it can be interesting to observe.

They've gathered into a half circle facing the crackling fire. All but Mrs. Hudson, who seems happiest when she's fussing with the food she spent all day preparing, and handing out heaping plates of it to her guests. John has assigned himself the task of keeping glasses filled, but he spends most of his time in the chair that will always be his. Mary is perched on the arm of it, one hand resting lightly on his shoulder.

Molly and her boyfriend have brought chairs from the kitchen and sit side by side at the center of the half circle. She is shy and coy by turns, glancing in Sherlock's direction when she's said something that gets the others laughing. He knows that she still cares about him more than she should, and wonders if that might be about to change. The boyfriend is clearly smitten with her, and he should be encouraged by the way she touches him at every opportunity. Going by the looks he's been giving her since they arrived, there was a very satisfying sexual encounter between them sometime in the past few hours. Satisfying on his side, at least. Sherlock studies Molly for a moment until she looks his way and catches him at it. She looks away, but not before he notes that her level of satisfaction was probably not equal to her partner's. Maybe she realizes that's what Sherlock was wondering. It would explain the furious blush.

Lestrade seems to have adjusted well to his unmarried status, although he's come as a single to the party again. Before, it was because his wife refused to come spend time with his odd friends. Now, it's because she's run off with her current love. They've finalized the divorce, John tells him. No girlfriend on the horizon, but Lestrade is nearly as devoted to The Work as Sherlock, so that's probably for the best. He wonders idly if Lestrade is looking for a flatshare, and immediately deletes the notion. Lestrade is not John. No one is.

Mrs. Hudson loves to mother him, and he doesn't mind. Not really. She does the same to everyone she cares about, and that includes the entire group here tonight, but she has a special fondness for John and Sherlock, her pseudo-sons. Her steadfast belief that he and John are secretly a couple, in spite of her obvious fondness for Mary, still irritates John. It's not as if she's the only person to have made that assumption. Sherlock has never cared about the rumors. The only opinion that matters to him is John's.

His view of Mary is colored by the way John seems to see her, and he's aware of the potential danger in this. Sherlock has seen her gauge John's reaction to what she is saying, and change course before he can disagree. Sherlock chooses to believe that her malleable behavior is a reflection of her desire to please the man she loves. He had deduced deception in her that first night, but after having seen it in practice, he has classified it as benign. It's clear that John is happy being with her, and that is enough to keep Sherlock on her side for now.

Just as his interest in people-watching begins to fade, Mrs. Hudson and Molly start tidying up the debris of plates and glasses strewn on every flat surface, and the party begins to break up. 

Greg is first to put on his coat. He accepts a bag of leftovers from Mrs. Hudson, and returns her hug. He claps Sherlock lightly on the shoulder as he passes, as casually as if they've always been this comfortable with each other.

John and Mary are the last to leave. Mary wants to stop downstairs to see if she can help Mrs. Hudson with the dishes she's hauled down to her flat. John lags behind to talk to Sherlock.

"You know, you could take a day off once in a while." John is smiling, but he means what he's saying. "You're a bit more subtle about it now, but you're still deducing everyone instead of joining in."

It seems John's observational skills are improving. "Watching, John. Not deducing."

John rolls his eyes. "I know the difference. So does Molly, going by the way you were making her blush." He leans in and whispers theatrically, "Some things are best left un-deduced."

Definitely improving. "At least I didn't comment out loud."

"This time," John adds. "And thank God for small favors." He touches Sherlock's arm as he turns to catch up with Mary. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock."

"And a happy new year," Sherlock responds, and unaccountably thinks of Mycroft.

Watching John walk away puts a hollow ache in his chest that is becoming uncomfortably familiar. He wonders if this is the sensation that had made John unable to remain in the flat after he thought Sherlock was dead. But John isn't dead. The response is out of proportion to the trigger. 

Maybe he needs to address it the same way John did. He could find a smaller flat in a less central location without having to tap into his trust fund. But he's not likely to find another landlady willing to take rent so far below market. And the thought of leaving 221B seems to intensify the ache rather than alleviate it.

He definitely needs Work, and the sooner the better.

* * * * *

Lestrade calls him the next morning with some cases he describes as 'possibly interesting', but which Sherlock suspects have been dug out of a desk drawer because the DI is as bored as Sherlock. As he's stepping outside to hail a cab for Scotland Yard, Sherlock's phone rings again. He pulls it out without glancing at the caller ID, assuming it's Lestrade making sure he's on his way. He comes to a full stop, arm raised at an approaching cab, when he recognizes the voice.

"Anderson?"

"Sherlock, I need to see you." There is an audible wince in his voice that says he is braced for a less than positive response.

The cab stops, and he signals the driver to wait. "What for?"

Deep breath. "It's, um, personal. I'm next door at Speedy's."

Sherlock turns to his left and sees Philip Anderson standing at the front window next to the counter. He lowers his phone, and Anderson comes out of Speedy's with his still against his ear. "Can I come up and talk to you? It will only take a few minutes."

To risk the humiliation he so richly deserves by coming to Sherlock, Anderson has to be at the end of his rope. Curiosity trumps history. He signals the cabbie to move on. "Five minutes," he tells Anderson, then pockets his phone and waits for him to catch up. He opens the front door and sprints up the stairs, taking a left into the kitchen where he leans against the counter while Anderson trudges up the stairs like a man climbing the gallows.

Anderson stops just inside the door. His gaze flits around the room, looking at everything but Sherlock. Then he clears his throat. "I know you have no reason to help me, but this isn't about me." He takes a breath. "It's my brother. His wife just died from injuries she received in a brutal rape five weeks ago. The police had her attacker in custody, but they had to let him go. My brother asked me if I knew of anyone who could help him get justice. I told him I would ask." He finally meets Sherlock's eyes. "Would you take a look at the case and forget that he's my brother?"

It's somehow incongruous to think of Anderson having a family. It's never crossed his mind to wonder about the man's personal life, aside from the entertainment value of deducing his affair with Donovan. "Why did the police let him go?"

Anderson shrugs. "I don't have access to any of the details. James-- that's my brother-- said that the evidence was tainted and couldn't be used. The attacker was arrested a few blocks from the scene, and his DNA was on her body. Something happened to make it unusable. She never regained consciousness to identify him."

"Is it Lestrade's case?"

"No. DI Dimmock handled it." Anderson snorts. "Badly, I'm sure." His eyes fix on Sherlock's. "Will you help?"

Sherlock studies him for a long moment. "What was the victim's name?"

"Miranda Anderson." Anderson's voice drops, and he looks away. "I--I never even got to meet her."

The injustice of allowing a murderer to walk free on what was no doubt a legal technicality overrides everything else, including his opinion of the man standing before him. "Tell your brother that I'll look into the case. I can't promise that there's anything I can do, but I will get in touch with you later today. I'm meeting with Lestrade this morning."

Anderson exhales with relief. "I was afraid you'd just tell me to piss off."

"I nearly did."

Anderson's smile is tight and brief. "I appreciate whatever you can do. It's more than I had any right to expect." 

Sherlock decides this is a true statement, and lets it stand. "I'll be in touch." He pushes away from the counter, and Anderson takes his cue to leave. 

Sherlock waits long enough to ensure that they won't be waiting side by side for a taxi, then heads down the stairs.

* * * * *

"I didn't even know he had a brother." Lestrade closes the folder and hands it across his desk to Sherlock, then leans back in his chair. "Miranda Anderson, 32. Nurse at Royal London Hospital, married to James Anderson, 35, also a nurse." He gestures at the folder Sherlock is flipping through. "Crime scene photos look like something out of a horror film. Most brutal rape I've ever seen, and that's saying a lot. He slammed her head against the concrete floor so many times that he crushed the back of her skull."

"DNA evidence was thrown out. Why?" Sherlock looks up from the folder.

"The Crown prosecutor found that the chain of custody had been broken. The evidence kit was left in the SOCO's car when she stopped to pick up her daughter from the sitter's, of all things. Some kids broke the car window and stole her laptop and the box with all the evidence. They dumped the box in a skip around the corner. The evidence bags were compromised."

"None of it can be used?"

Lestrade grimaces. "Correct."

"Anderson implied it was Dimmock's fault. Where did he get that impression?"

"He's worked with the man. So have you. It's not a big leap. The SOCO told Dimmock that she had to pick up her daughter, and she needed him to take the evidence to the lab himself. He refused."

Sherlock flips through the crime scene images, and Lestrade is right. The savagery of the attack is shocking and far beyond what was needed to subdue the victim. He looks up at Lestrade. "The brutality itself is a signature. Have there been similar attacks?"

Lestrade shakes his head. "Nothing even close to this."

Sherlock picks up the arrest sheet that includes the suspect's photos, full front and profile. Michael Hartman looks more like an altar boy than a rapist. Blond, blue eyes, and an angelic smile that is obscene in this context. "He could approach any woman and not alarm her. You're sure this is the man?"

"DNA doesn't lie. Unless he has an identical twin, he's the only possibility."

"Where did you get his DNA to run the comparison?" 

Lestrade smiles. "We let him have a smoke in the interrogation room. DNA match came from the butt."

"Very resourceful." Sherlock suspects that was Lestrade's idea, going by the smile. "What made you bring him in?"

"Officers spotted him running down an alley two streets over. His hair was dripping wet, he was barefoot, and he was dressed in trousers so big that he had to hold them up with both hands. Looked like he showered and grabbed someone else's clothes."

"No sign of his discarded clothing? It had to be covered with her blood."

"Not so far. He somehow managed to ditch the clothes and shower off the blood in the twenty minutes that elapsed between the attack being reported and the arrest. If he broke into a nearby flat to do it, he would have left a mess. There wasn't time to do anything else. No one's reported anything. If he's got a friend in the neighborhood who's protecting him, we haven't turned 'em up."

"He offered no reason for being in the neighborhood at the time of the rape?" 

"He refused. Said as far as he knows, there's no law against going barefoot in the snow. He's not as naive as he looks."

Sherlock reads the rest of the file, studies the images once more, then places the folder on Lestrade's desk and sits back. "I'm not a magician. There's no evidence. No witness. There's nothing I can suggest that you haven't already tried."

Lestrade chuckles. "Well, if that's not the most humble thing I've ever heard you say..." At Sherlock's narrow look, he adds, "I was hoping there was something we missed."

"You didn't miss it, you invalidated it. I can't undo that."

"Fair enough. You'll tell Anderson, then?"

"Yes." He wishes he'd told Anderson to contact Lestrade for the results. "What else do you have for me?"

Lestrade hands a stack of folders across the desk, and Sherlock flips through the contents, his frown deepening with each folder he drops on Lestrade's desk. He sits back. "This is the best you can do?"

Greg crosses his arms, but his eyes are more amused than irritated. "You're the one who's been after me to get you out of that flat. Well, you're out. Be thankful for small favors."

Sherlock gets to his feet. "Do let me know if anything worthwhile comes up." He starts for the door, then hesitates. "I will have another look at the Anderson file." He holds out his hand, and Greg complies. And then he's gone in a swirl of coattails, leaving the DI shaking his head.

Sherlock calls Anderson from the taxi on his way home to give him the bad news. The man sounds disappointed but not surprised.

"I knew it was a long shot. I'll tell James there's nothing that can be done. Thank you for looking into it, Sherlock. If there's anything I can do for you , just--"

Sherlock cuts him off. "I didn't do anything. You don't owe me."

"Yes, you did. My brother will know that he did his best. That's a lot."

"I have another call," Sherlock lies. He ends the call before Anderson can thank him again. 

The images of the murdered woman stay with him, as does the nagging certainty that, while Michael Hartman may not have done this before, he will do it again. It's just a matter of time. Through a combination of luck and circumstance, he has gotten away with a rape that became a murder in slow motion.

Although he told Anderson that there's nothing more anyone can do, Sherlock boots up his laptop as soon as he gets home. Three hours later, he knows little more than he did when he started aside from the schools Hartman attended, and a social media presence that paints the picture of a typical twenty-year-old with a propensity for pub crawls and half-naked uni girls who clearly find him irresistible, going by the content of their comments on his Facebook page. The only thing Sherlock knows with certainty is that any one of them could be his next victim.

That belief holds for a full twenty-four hours. Sherlock is sitting at his kitchen table immersing eyeballs in various corrosives to gauge how long each takes to dissolve when his phone begins to ring. The display says it's Lestrade, and Sherlock taps the speaker button.

"Karma's a bitch," the DI says without preamble.

"Not often enough. And?"

"Michael Hartman is dead."

Sherlock sits up straight. "How?"

"One of the tenants in his building found him in the underground garage about an hour ago with his trousers down to his ankles and his belt around his neck."

"Has the body been moved?"

"The scene's taped off and waiting for you. I'll be there in ten minutes to pick you up."

* * * * 

End of Chapter One


	2. Sherlock Gets Takeaway

Warning: This chapter includes graphic descriptions of sexual violence and murder. You will be seeing the aftermath, not the act itself, but the details may be disturbing.

* * * *

Michael Hartman lived in Wapping in a block of flats whose shell retains the character of its waterfront warehouse past, but with a heart that is pure 21st century luxe. Similarly repurposed structures perch side by side with artfully aged new construction along this section of the Thames north bank, sharing space with trendy pubs and restaurants. It is not the address of a young man on a budget.

Lestrade parks just outside the garage that occupies the building's ground floor, and flashes his badge as they walk past the constable guarding the open vehicle entrance. The garage has slots for twenty cars, ten on either side of the narrow drive. The crime scene is at the far end of the left hand row, only visible from the entrance because of the police presence and the yellow tape that marks the perimeter.

Sherlock stops just inside the tape boundary and absorbs the pertinent details in one slow pivot. There's a small lift at the far end with its door facing the spot where the body lies. Anyone exiting the lift would see it immediately. On the right, opposite the second to last car on that side, is a metal door marked 'Stairs'. No security cameras, an omission that will doubtless be quickly rectified now. Sherlock turns to Lestrade. "Is the garage door secured?" 

Lestrade uncrosses his arms to point at a keypad mounted on a three foot post to the right of the door. "Press a button leaving, key in a passcode coming home. There's a matching one outside."

Sherlock gives him a look. "Yes, I can see that, but are they functional? How long does it take the door to close once it's been activated?"

"I'll ask." Lestrade turns and heads for the sergeant in charge of the scene. 

Sherlock opts for the direct approach. He walks to the keypad, and pushes the button. The door rumbles closed in a leisurely fourteen seconds. He pushes the button again, and times the opening at fifteen seconds. He returns to Lestrade's disapproving frown. 

"Sherlock, those buttons haven't been dusted for prints."

"The killer didn't touch the keypads." He brushes past the DI and walks around the car to view the body for the first time. The car Michael Hartman lies next to is a dove gray Jaguar. The driver side door is standing open.

Sherlock observes the body as he pulls on a pair of latex gloves. 

Lestrade steps around him to reach the open car door and peers inside. "Keys are in the ignition. Mobile phone on the console. I don't see any signs of a struggle."

Sherlock walks slowly to where Lestrade is standing, scanning the body as he moves. Hartman's trousers and underwear are bunched around his ankles, exposing him from the waist down. The pattern and spread of bruises on the buttocks and hips reflect the grip of large, powerful hands. The obvious source of the blood surrounding the lower portion of the body is the tire lever shoved into the rectum. Not the cause of death. Not enough blood loss. But clearly done while the heart was still pumping. He moves to the head and crouches for a better look. Dark purple discoloration of the face. Protruding tongue. Bulging, wide-open eyes. Leather belt pulled tightly around the neck. The hands are not bound, and there is no gag on the mouth.

Sherlock comments as he scans the details. "The victim is a bit below average height, but muscular enough to have put up a fight. His killer outweighed him, and topped him by six inches or more, judging by the hands that made those marks. Hartman was no match for his attacker," he examines the victim's hands closely, "but he didn't even attempt to defend himself." He takes out his phone and starts taking pictures. "He wasn't unconscious, going by the expression on his face," Sherlock says as he moves down the body, taking several angles of the bruises and the tire lever. "He was awake for all of this." 

"So, not tied up or gagged. Or knocked out cold. How did the killer control him? What stopped him running away, or calling out for help?" Lestrade looks toward the sergeant, and waves him over.

The officer excuses himself from the woman he's talking with, and comes over to Lestrade, writing on his clipboard as he walks. "Yes, Detective Inspector?"

"Any witnesses?"

"Just Mrs. Wills, sir." he nods toward the woman he was interviewing, "She spotted the body when she was coming out of the lift."

"Was there anyone else in the garage?" Sherlock asks.

The officer turns to Sherlock. "She didn't stick around long enough to see. Just got back in the lift and went back to her flat to call for help." He turns back to Lestrade. "My partner's knocking on doors. Only 12 of the flats are occupied. So far, nobody reports seeing or hearing anything unusual." He glances at his waiting witness. "Will there be anything else, sir?"

"She didn't check to see if he was alive?" Sherlock asks the officer, but his focus is on the witness. She is an attractive, well-dressed woman in her fifties who appears quite composed for someone who has just found a mutilated body in her car park.

"Sherlock," Lestrade warns, but Sherlock is already on his way to the woman.

"Mrs. Wills? Was the garage door open when you came out of the lift?"

She frowns at him. "Am I expected to repeat the entire story to you as well?"

Sherlock smiles. "Did the officer ask you that question?"

She squares her shoulders. "No, he did not." 

"And?" Sherlock prods.

"I don't know," she huffs impatiently. "I don't think so. I saw him as soon as the doors opened. I never got out of the lift."

"There's quite a bit of light coming through the open door. The character of the light would be different with just the overheads. Do you recall if it looked like it does now?"

The woman glances at the sergeant and Lestrade, then back at Sherlock. "Are you accusing me of lying?"

Lestrade joins them. "We're just hoping you might remember something more." He gives Sherlock a look that says he's also noted the woman's oddly defensive response.

Mrs. Wills lifts her chin. "It was closed."

Sherlock nods. "How long does it take for the door to close?"

She frowns. "How on earth would I know that?"

Sherlock turns back to the body and leaves Mrs. Wills to the sergeant. Lestrade follows. "What was that all about?"

Sherlock has crouched next to the body. He replies without looking up at Lestrade. "She didn't go back to her flat immediately. She left the lift and walked over to the body. She knew Hartman, and she didn't trust him. Good instincts. Bad liar."

"Why would she lie?"

Sherlock gives him a weary look. So obvious. "Morbid curiosity doesn't fit the image she's trying to project. She wanted a closer look, and she doesn't want to admit it." 

Lestrade crouches next to him. "Okay. So, the killer surprises the victim, subdues him somehow, and does this." He gestures at the tire lever. "Sexual assault, or meant to look like one."

"Poetic justice?"

The DI straightens up. "Could be."

"That would make James Anderson a man in need of an alibi," Sherlock comments. "A medical professional might have methods for subduing a victim that would be fast and efficient without physical force."

Lestrade shakes his head. "Anderson would never have been given Hartman's name. Not even Dimmock would make a mistake like that."

Sherlock stands up. "Doesn't Philip Anderson have contacts among his former colleagues who might have leaked it?"

"Even Donovan was avoiding him by the time he left. The only information Philip or James would have been able to get was that a suspect was questioned and released."

Sherlock frowns. "But he knew that the evidence was tainted. If he managed to get his hands on that information, what makes you think he didn't discover the suspect's name?"

"You really think the husband did this?"

"You saw the crime scene photographs. Can you think of a stronger motive than what was done to his wife?"

Lestrade thinks for a moment. "I'll ask Dimmock if he told the victim's husband anything he shouldn't, not that I expect him to admit it. It would have been incredibly unprofessional, not to mention stupid."

"Remember who we're discussing."

"Right." He looks past Sherlock at two men approaching in blue disposable coveralls. The forensics team. He looks back at Sherlock. "Seen enough?"

Sherlock arches an eyebrow. "I believe we now have access to the victim's flat?"

Lestrade smiles. "You're reading my mind."

Hartman's flat is on the first floor facing the water. His flat key is on the ring with his car keys, and his status as a murder victim makes his flat an extension of the crime scene. Everything it contains is now fair game, including any evidence that could implicate him in the Anderson rape. While Hartman is obviously no longer subject to prosecution, being able to definitively attribute the crime to him would be the next best thing.

Lestrade knocks sharply on the door and identifies himself. A moment later, he uses the key and unlocks it. "You wait here," he tells Sherlock, then reinforces it with a glare before he enters the flat to do a quick sweep in the unlikely event that the killer is lurking inside. Lestrade comes back to the door and waves Sherlock in. 

The living room is large, with two glass walls that open onto a balcony with glass balustrades. It's an impressive view of the Thames, no more than ten feet above the high water line. The decor is sparse, starkly modern, principally black leather, chrome, and glass with white walls and polished wood floors. Sherlock walks slowly around the perimeter, noting the absence of any personal touches. It might as well be a furnished model rather than someone's home. There's no dust on any surface, and the windows are sparkling clear. No magazines, or books. No television. The art on the walls is tasteful, matches the theme of the room, and reveals nothing about the flat's occupant. Sherlock is standing in the center of the room on a ridiculously deep shag rug when Lestrade calls his name from the rear of the flat.

He finds Lestrade in a bathroom that is as pristine as the living room. The mirror cabinet over the wash basin is open. "Shaving stuff, toothbrush, shampoo," Lestrade says, waving at the contents. He opens the cabinet below the sink. "Blow dryer. Cleaning products." He straightens. "I'd have sworn no one was living here." 

Sherlock walks into the bedroom and opens the closet, then the drawers in the bedside table and the bureau. He pulls back the duvet and leans down to sniff the pillows. "He was living here, and sleeping in the bed." He returns to the bureau. "Everything is folded and aligned perfectly. Obsessively so." He closes the drawer and heads for the kitchen. 

Lestrade stands in the doorway and watches Sherlock open the cabinets and drawers, then the fridge. "Doesn't look like he did much cooking."

Sherlock frowns at the room in general, and Lestrade walks back to the living room. Sherlock opens the last unexplored area, the cabinet beneath the sink. On the right is a plastic tray that holds a few cleaning products and a collection of neatly folded plastic bags. On the left is a round plastic rubbish bin that looks empty, until he brings it out from the cabinet for a closer look. Lying at the bottom is a white, standard size envelope. He picks it up carefully by one corner and finds a single line address written on the front in blue biro ink in a man's script. The address says simply 'Hartman'. The flap isn't sealed, and he extracts a single sheet of paper. "Lestrade."

The DI strolls back to the door. "Find something?"

Sherlock holds up the sheet of paper, reciting what Lestrade can read from the unfolded note. "Face me like a man." He hands it to Lestrade. "Signed 'James Anderson'."

* * * *

James and Miranda Anderson's home is a one bedroom flat on the ground floor of a multi unit brick complex on Peridot Street in Beckton, less than a half mile from the Tube station. It's a quiet, reasonably safe area. That's what Miranda Anderson must have believed, right up until the moment she encountered a sweet-faced young man on her way home from the Tube station who proved that there is no such place.

James Anderson doesn't know they're coming to see him. A first reaction is often the most revealing part of the interview. The first surprise, however, is on Lestrade and Sherlock when the man who opens the door to their knock is the wrong Anderson. 

Philip Anderson comes outside and closes the door behind him, hope blooming on his face. "You've found something?" The question is addressed to Sherlock.

Lestrade answers. "Not what you think, I'm afraid. This is an official call."

Philip turns on him, frowning. "What are you saying?"

"We need to talk with your brother. And it would be best if you weren't present."

"We just buried my brother's wife." His voice is icy. "Can't this wait?"

That would explain the dark suit. Sherlock has rarely seen Anderson out of his blue coveralls. "You asked me to help your brother. I'm still trying to do that. We need to talk to him, alone. Now."

Philip hesitates. "Let me tell him." He goes back inside and closes the door. He comes back a few minutes later, just as Lestrade raises his hand to knock again. "He's willing to talk to you, but I'm not leaving." He crosses his arms.

Sherlock starts to protest, but Lestrade cuts in, "That will be fine. For now. Can we come in?"

Philip steps back and holds the door.

It's a small, cluttered living room, the diametric opposite of Hartman's trendy flat. The floral print sofa and matching overstuffed chair take up half the room. James Anderson is seated in the center of the sofa, dressed in a dark suit and tie. He stands, and Philip goes to his side. "Detective Inspector Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes, this is my brother, James Anderson."

Lestrade comes forward and shakes hands with James. "I'm very sorry for your loss, Mr. Anderson. And I'm sorry that we have to disturb you today."

James shakes his hand, but his eyes are on Sherlock who is standing a few paces back. "Philip said you tried to help me, but there was nothing you could do. Has that changed?"

Sherlock and Lestrade have a game plan, devised during the drive to Anderson's home. Lestrade will handle the interview. Sherlock's role is to observe James Anderson, and to refrain from interrupting for as long as humanly possible. Sherlock looks at Lestrade now, prompting James to do the same.

"Do you mind if we sit?" Lestrade takes the armchair without waiting for an answer.

The Anderson brothers take the sofa. Sherlock, who would prefer to stand, can't do so now without looming. He pulls out the chair in front of a small desk and sits, one foot tapping minutely on the carpet, back ramrod straight.

Lestrade asks the first prepared question. "Do you know the name of the man suspected of attacking your wife?"

Philip stiffens, but the change in James is instantaneous. Quiet grief to dark fury. "He's not a 'man', and he didn't 'attack' her." He spits the words. "He's a rabid animal who murdered her and got away with it."

"James." Philip puts a hand on his brother's shoulder. "He doesn't know the name. How would he?" His eyes narrow. "Greg, what's going on?"

The DI exhales and pulls a small notebook from his coat. "I need to ask you some questions, Mr. Anderson. The man who was suspected of attacking your wife," he deliberately emphasizes 'suspected', and his expression dares another outburst, "was found murdered this morning."

Philip sucks in a sharp breath, and James sags back against the cushion, staring at Lestrade with wide, shocked eyes. His expression changes quickly from shock to confusion, and finally alarm. "You think I had something to do with it?" Outrage comes next, and he sits forward, ready to spring. "I was burying my wife this morning!"

Lestrade opens his notebook and says calmly, "We don't know what time he was killed."

Philip finds his voice, and it's tight with anger. "I came to you for help." He bites out the words, glaring at Sherlock. "I should have known better."

"I _am_ helping you. Your brother needs to tell us how he got the name." Sherlock's voice is as level as Philip's is irate.

"What makes you think he got it from _anyone_? I don't know it. How would he?" Philip looks to James for confirmation, but James looks away. "James?" 

At Lestrade's signal, Sherlock extracts a plastic bag from his coat and holds it out to James. "Is this your signature?"

James glances briefly at the signature visible through the plastic, then rises wearily to his feet. "I have something to show you." He walks to the desk and takes a folded sheet of paper from the top drawer. He hands it to Sherlock who holds it carefully by the edge. It's a half sheet of letter size white paper with a few lines of text in the center. 

Sherlock reads it aloud. "'Michael Hartman killed your wife.'" He passes it to Lestrade. "Unsigned. Hartman's address is conveniently included."

Lestrade looks up at James. "Where did you get this?"

James returns to the sofa and sinks into it. "It was stuck in the door when I got home from the hospital the night my wife died." He looks at his brother. "I didn't kill him, Philip."

Philip stares at him. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I just wanted to get a look at him. See his face. I don't know if he was even home. I knocked, but no one answered, so I stuck that note in his door, and then I came home." He looks at Lestrade. "I swear that's all I did. I never saw him."

Lestrade poises a pen over the notebook. "You went to his flat, when?"

"Last night."

"What time?" Lestrade's voice takes a turn that Sherlock recognizes, from inquiry to interrogation with no steps in between. Philip Anderson appears to notice as well. 

James frowns. "Exactly? I'm not sure. I left here about nine o'clock. Maybe an hour later? Ten, I think."

"Did you take a taxi?" 

"I drove my car."

"How long were you there?"

James blows out a long breath. "Ten minutes? No more than that. Maybe less."

"Did you go anywhere else?"

"No, I came straight home. And before you ask, I got back here just after eleven. My brother can confirm that I was here when he phoned."

Philip speaks up. "I called his landline from my mobile." He pulls out his phone and scrolls to the call history, then holds it out to Lestrade. "Right here. I called him at 11:07, and we spoke for eighteen minutes."

Lestrade makes a note, then locks his gaze with James Anderson's. "Why did you go to Hartman's flat?"

"I told you. I wanted to see what he looked like. To see what kind of man could do what he did."

"What did you mean, 'Face me like a man'?" The DI's follow up question is immediate, not giving James a moment to think.

Philip clears his throat. "I think my brother needs to talk to a lawyer."

Lestrade sits back. "Is that what you want, James? To prolong the investigation and keep it focused on you? Or would you rather just answer the question?"

James sighs. "I wanted him to know that he didn't get away with it. To wonder every day of his life if I was waiting around the next corner." His gaze is fixed on Lestrade's. "I swear on my wife's soul that I did not kill him." 

The DI closes his notebook. "I'd like to take that note back to the lab and have it processed for prints."

Philip shakes his head. "Not until we talk to a lawyer."

James touches his arm. "It's all right, Philip. I have nothing to hide."

"Thank you. Hartman's time of death should be established in a day or so." Lestrade nods to Sherlock, and they both stand. "We'll be in touch," he tells the brothers.

James nods. Philip glares. "You can show yourselves out."

"You still think James Anderson could have done it," Sherlock observes as they're getting into the DI's car.

Lestrade exhales heavily. "I wish I didn't."

Sherlock smirks. "Then don't. He had motive, certainly. And the way Hartman was killed would suggest a personal vendetta. But his surprise was genuine. He had no idea Hartman was dead. Once Molly sets the time of death, he'll have an alibi, and everyone who attended his wife's funeral will be witnesses."

Lestrade pulls out onto the main road, glancing at Sherlock as he checks the traffic. "If the time of death coincides with the funeral, sure. What if it doesn't?"

"Then this case jumps back to an 8. But that's not going to happen. The man who killed Michael Hartman is substantially taller and heavier than James Anderson. Hartman's lifestyle far exceeded his legitimate means, which strongly suggests he was supplementing his income. The recreational drugs trade would fit his age and taste. He was young and violent. He would have had enemies. Even the constable guarding the garage door this morning could put together a list of suspects with that information."

Lestrade shoots him a sidelong glare. "Tactful to a fault, as always. Write it down. I'm not a bloody tape recorder."

The case is a four, but there's one loose end that needs to be tied up before he can completely put it aside. He makes a call from the taxi on his way back to Baker Street. 

"Molly, there's a body on the way to your morgue. I need you to check something for me."

* * * * *

Two days later, Sherlock is sorting through plastic bags in the freezer in search of a piglet he saved for a rainy day when he hears John's familiar tread on the stairs. 

"You're just in time," he tells John by way of greeting, holding the frozen piglet aloft.

John makes the expected face. "Just tea for me, thanks."

"No sense of adventure," Sherlock fires back. He turns to the counter and switches on the kettle.

John pulls out a chair and sits down with his arms folded on the table. "What have you been up to? I keep checking to make sure my phone's working."

"A murder case that started out an 8 and turned into a 4. Not worth your time."

"Yeah, well even a 2 would sound good to me. It's been too long." 

Sherlock's phone rings in the living room just as the kettle boils. 

John pushes back his chair. "You get the phone. I'll make the tea."

Sherlock sprints to the desk and picks up his phone. The caller ID is for Bart's morgue. 

"Sherlock, I think I have something for you. Can you come to the lab?"

"You can't tell me on the phone?"

"It's better if I show you. And I have something you'll want to take with you."

"Takeaway from the mortuary. How can I refuse?" He lifts an eyebrow at John who has come partway into the living room to listen. "I'm on my way." He pockets the phone. "Fancy a trip to Bart's?"

John smiles.

* * * *

Molly is waiting for him in the lab, and her smile brightens when she sees John follow him in. "Hello, John. This is a nice surprise!" To Sherlock, "You were right about Michael Hartman being drugged. I haven't identified the substance, but there is an injection site on the back of his neck just at the hairline."

John clears his throat. "Sorry, Michael Hartman?"

Molly looks at Sherlock.

"The 8 that turned into a 4 just jumped to a 6. Hartman was suspected of killing Philip Anderson's sister-in-law, the direct result of a particularly brutal rape. Hartman was never charged because the evidence was tainted, and Anderson asked me to look into the case. I didn't find anything to pursue, and the day after Anderson told his brother that the case was a dead end, Hartman turned up murdered."

John's eyebrows rise. "Anderson came to you with a case? Now that's a client interview I would have paid good money to watch."

"It was entirely uneventful."

John snorts. 

Molly clears her throat to bring them back to the point. "Did you want to see the body?" She moves to the draped table and pulls back the sheet.

Michael Hartman's body is face down on the metal table, a position that exposes the wreckage left by the tire lever as well as the extensive bruising. John stands at the foot of the table and winces as he scans the damage. "What the hell did he use to do that?"

Sherlock takes out his phone, scrolls to the crime scene pictures he took, and hands it to John. "Tire lever."

John grimaces at the images. "Jesus."

Molly places a gloved finger on the back of Hartman's neck. "It's here."

Sherlock leans close with his magnifying glass. "Fresh enough to have been inflicted near the time of death?" He looks at Molly, who nods. He straightens. "John? Have a look."

John takes the magnifier from Sherlock and peers at the back of Hartman's neck. "I would say so. You think he was drugged?" 

Sherlock starts walking around the autopsy table, turning and gesturing as he moves. "His hands weren't tied, and there's no sign he was punched or hit over the head, yet the killer was able to strangle him with his own belt, and sexually assault him without Hartman raising the slightest fuss. There's not a mark on his hands, and nothing under his nails. He was conscious, but not able to fight back. What drug would act quickly enough to let the killer do what he did while keeping the victim aware enough to leave that expression on his face?" 

John and Molly share a speculative look. "Succinylcholine." They say the word nearly in unison.

Sherlock nods. "Or something with the same effects. But wouldn't it have had to be injected directly into a vein?"

"Not always," John clarifies. "The drug actually has a longer half-life intramuscularly. Bit slower onset, but the effect typically lasts fifteen to thirty minutes. More than long enough to get the job done." 

Molly winces in sympathy. "I know he was a terrible person, but it's a horrible way to die. The injection would have left him totally paralyzed, even his diaphragm. He wouldn't be able to draw a breath, but he could feel everything that was happening to him. The awful panic of not being able to breathe. He could have been conscious for a couple of minutes. Slowly smothering to death." She gives an involuntary shudder. "Can I cover him now?"

"There is a postmortem test for Succinylcholine now, isn't there?" John asks Molly.

Molly nods. "For the traces it leaves behind, yes. If you know to look for it. But it's not always accurate." She turns to Sherlock. "And identifying the specific drug isn't important in this case."

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow. "The murder weapon isn't important?"

She smiles. "I'm not familiar with your rating system, but if a simple injection site bumped the case up to a six, then the rest of what I have for you should make it a ten."

Sherlock and John exchange a look.

Molly continues, "I had already heard of Michael Hartman before you asked me to look at the body. I ran his DNA for Greg Lestrade a few weeks ago for the Miranda Anderson rape, although I had no idea she was Philip's sister-in-law. Greg brought me a cigarette butt and asked me to compare the DNA to evidence from the Miranda Anderson rape. It was a match."

John looks at Sherlock. "Then why wasn't Hartman arrested?"

"The DNA evidence from the rape was compromised. It was all they had, so Hartman was not going to be prosecuted," Sherlock answers John, then turns to Molly. "So, what makes this case a ten?"

She turns to the table behind her and picks up two manila folders. "This is your takeaway." She hands the files to Sherlock. "Both of those victims were murdered shortly after eluding justice, just like Michael Hartman. What makes it a ten is that I believe they were all killed by the same man."

* * * *  
End of chapter two

A/N - Virtual roses and digital chocolates to Jolie Black and sevenpercent for patient and meticulous beta through four 'final' drafts of this chapter. Any errors that remain no doubt came from the final tweak that they are seeing for the first time with this posting. --GW


	3. Public Service Homicide

* * * * * * *  


John will never tire of this, watching Sherlock apply that stupefying intellect to a problem, and Molly has presented him with one that checks all the boxes. Serial killers, if that's what this turns out to be, are Sherlock's favorite prey. Not for the reason he once claimed, (there's always something to look forward to), but because catching a killer who makes a hobby of taking as many lives as possible offers a special sense of satisfaction. Sherlock hates the limelight, and stopping murders before they happen provides the perfect combination of outsmarting his target while never revealing to those he saves that they unknowingly owe him their lives.

He is not quite pacing with excitement, but it's close. Shifting from one foot to the other, and occasionally crossing the room to look back at Molly from a different perspective, he's animated even when he's standing relatively still. He's been gently grilling Molly on her theory, and she's giving as good as she gets. There's a spark of defiant confidence in her that he's never seen before. It's the most fun John has had in a very long time.

"You're saying that the lack of defensive wounds on these two cases is a link to Hartman, but there's no proof that any of them was injected with a paralytic, or with anything at all. There weren't even any injection marks found on McConnell and Brandt."

"Injections aren't that easy to spot. And there is no need to hit a vein with succinylcholine. The full effect takes a bit longer to set in if you just jab where you can reach, but the duration is actually longer. The marks could have been anywhere. Not finding them doesn't mean they weren't there."

Sherlock paces to the workbench against the far wall, waving a dismissive hand. "Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence. I'm familiar with the concept, but it can also be exactly what it seems. There were no injections to find."

Molly crosses her arms. "I didn't examine the others the way I did Hartman. I don't think I would have found his injection if you hadn't asked me to look for it." She frowns. "And while we're at it, what even made you think I might find one?"

John sees Sherlock's eyes narrow. She has him. Sherlock lifts his chin and sniffs. "The lack of defensive wounds, obviously. What made you think that McConnell and Brandt might have been suspects in murders? It can't have been in the medical files."

"I already knew about Owen Brandt. I did his autopsy. Two of the investigating officers from Scotland Yard were here to observe, and they were talking about the case while I worked. They said his murder closed the investigation into his wife's murder as well. They called it a 'public service homicide'. I'd never heard the term before, but it wasn't hard to guess what they meant. It stuck in my head. I didn't know about William McConnell being a suspect until Greg looked him up when I called about the cases this morning." She puts her hands on her hips. "Even if we can never prove that they were injected with succinylcholine, what are the chances that three men who seemingly got away with murder just happened to end up being murdered themselves?"

Sherlock studies her for a long moment. John can see the answer in his eyes, but a nudge of encouragement seems called for. "You have to admit, Sherlock, the potential is there."

Molly gives John a grateful smile. Then, they both turn to look at Sherlock. She crosses her arms again. "Greg is very interested in this case, by the way. Are you really going to just stand back and let him have it?"

Sherlock's smile tells them he knows he's being double teamed, and it's not necessary. "Not if we want to catch the killer."

* * * * *

He's been officially resurrected for nearly two months, but the sight of Sherlock walking into Scotland Yard still manages to inspire a few stunned glances. This morning's visit is no exception. He enjoys it more than he'd like to admit, particularly when he recognizes one of the dozen or so officers who took such pleasure in hauling him out of the flat in cuffs the night before his 'suicide'. John, he notices, meets the shocked looks with a withering glare that he seems to reserve for these occasions. 

Lestrade is waiting for them in his office with two fat files on the desk in front of him. "John! Great to see you!" He stands up and shakes his hand. "You're working on this one, too?" He's obviously delighted.

"Wouldn't miss it. Molly seems to have turned up a serial killer," he says with a smile that's mildly disturbing, given the statement that inspired it. "She's made a good case for it, too." He starts filling Lestrade in on what they learned from her earlier.

Sherlock grabs the files from the desk before he sits down, then flips through the contents while John and the DI chat. He finds the crime scene photos for McConnell and fans them out. Deep red marks on the throat made by large, powerful hands remind him strongly of the finger spread on Hartman's hips. Manual strangulation. And no fingernail scratches on his throat where he should have been clawing those hands away in a vain attempt to draw a breath. The expression frozen on his face is very much like the one Michael Hartman died wearing. 

"Sherlock." Lestrade's tone suggests that this is not the first time he's tried to get his attention.

Sherlock looks up to find John and Lestrade frowning at him. "I'm not deaf."

"Selective hearing," Lestrade comments dryly. "Did Molly tell you that Hartman's time of death makes James Anderson's alibi good?"

Sherlock returns to the file. "I never doubted it."

John snorts. "Yeah, that's why you asked Molly to look for an injection site. I suppose it had nothing to do with him being a nurse with easy access to a paralytic drug."

"Belief demands proof. I was merely confirming." He closes the file and opens Brandt's. The autopsy photos show multiple stab wounds in the abdomen. He looks up. "I thought they were all asphyxiated?"

Lestrade nods. "The stab wounds? Just for effect, apparently. He was found folded up in the boot of his own car. Pressed in so tightly that he died of..." He searches his memory for the words.

Sherlock turns to the autopsy report. "Positional asphyxia."

"Right. He didn't actually bleed much. The position he was in acted like direct pressure and slowed it down to a trickle. Must have hurt like a bitch, though."

"I'd say that was the intent." He hands the photo to John. "The wound edges are very clean. Brandt didn't move while the blade was pushed in over and over."

"Sixteen times," John says, counting the marks. He looks at Sherlock. "Could the number have any significance?"

Greg shakes his head. "Doubt it. His wife was the same age as him. Thirty-four. They had no kids. Married eight years. If there's a point to the number, it's nothing obvious."

Sherlock looks at the crime scene photos of the body jammed in the boot. It's no wonder the man couldn't breathe. "Maybe that's all the time the killer had before the victim lost consciousness. How long would that have taken?" He turns to John.

"If the killer injected him with succinylcholine, he'd have been able to breathe for as long as two minutes. After that, he would have stayed conscious for another minute or two. Three at most." He winces. "It would have felt like the longest few minutes of his life. His adrenaline would have been pumping and it would have intensified every sensation. Nobody deserves to die like that."

Sherlock shrugs. "The killer would seem to disagree."

Lestrade sits back. "Okay, so what have we got? Is this a serial vigilante like Molly thinks, or just bad karma coming home to roost?"

Sherlock arches a brow. "Mixed metaphors aside, let's look at the probabilities. As Molly said, what are the odds that these three men, each suspected of murder but apparently safe from prosecution, became murder victims themselves? How common is that?" 

Greg lifts his hands, palms up. "Depends on the circumstances. A career criminal has plenty of opportunities to make enemies and get himself killed in the normal course of business, but these three weren't career criminals. McConnell and Brandt were suspected of murdering their wives. That's usually a crime of passion. A one-time thing. Hartman had the potential to become a serial rapist, but he wasn't there yet. They were no more likely to be murdered than anyone else."

"That's both a similarity and a difference," Sherlock points out. "Two killed their wives. One killed a stranger. All three were their first murders, as far as we know, although Hartman didn't kill his victim. She died from her injuries. And there's another difference." He flips through the files. "McConnell was murdered eight months after his wife died. Brandt was eleven months later. Hartman was practically the next day." He looks up at Greg. "Speaking of probabilities, what are the chances of all three victims being autopsied by the same person?"

"Molly does a lot of autopsies on murder victims. Bart's is a favored facility," Greg replies. "But there are a dozen other doctor's doing autopsies there, and the murders were months apart. I see what you're saying." He pauses. "What are you saying?"

"If these three were killed by the same man, how likely is it that they're his only victims."

Greg's expression sharpens. "Molly needs to talk to the other doctors. See if anyone remembers similar features in a murder case they handled. And check with colleagues at other hospitals for the same thing." He pulls a notepad from his middle desk drawer and starts making notes.

"I sent her a text from the taxi on the way over here. She'll already be in the process of doing just that," Sherlock tells him, and gets an eye roll in response. "The more potential victims we can add to the pool, the more likely it is that we'll find what really connects them."

Greg looks at him. "You mean, more than the murders they got away with?"

Sherlock nods. "There has to be something else. The way they were killed, and the reason they were killed, can't be the whole story. It doesn't get us any closer to the man who killed them."

"We've never looked at them as a group," Lestrade starts thinking out loud. "If they were killed by the same man, how did he choose them? Where would a vigilante find deserving targets?" He frowns at where this leads. "It would have to be someone who had knowledge of crimes that were never prosecuted. These men were interviewed, but never charged. Outside of the officers investigating the cases, no one would have known they were being considered, except for the men themselves."

Sherlock dismisses the suggestion. "This isn't the work of a disgruntled policeman. You lot plant evidence and force confessions. You don't torture suspects with drugs and stuff them in the boots of cars. And why wait months to do it?"

Lestrade makes a face at Sherlock's left-handed absolution. "And they're all different investigators. Including me, on the Anderson case."

"What about the victims' families?" John asks. "Were any of them aware that these men were considered the main suspects?" He takes the folder that Sherlock isn't currently perusing and flips it open on his lap. "Or the media? Reporters do a lot of speculating with next to no facts." 

Sherlock catches the fleeting wince in Lestrade's expression and shakes his head. "Not even the sleaziest reporter would risk naming a suspect who wasn't officially accused by the police. If you're looking for baseless speculation served up as fact, there's one obvious source." He lifts an eyebrow at John. "I believe we even have one contributor in our midst."

John has heard Sherlock malign his blog too often to bother taking offense. "There was something in McConnell's file." He flips pages for a moment, lips pursed in concentration, then pulls out one sheet and holds it up. "Lisa McConnell's parents had a website created to offer a reward for information when she went missing."

Sherlock has already pulled out his phone. He taps in 'Lisa McConnell missing'. The link to the website John just mentioned is repeated in a dozen results. He hands John the file for Brandt. "What was his wife's name?"

John quickly comes up with it. "Melanie."

Sherlock taps keys, then holds the phone up for John to read the screen. "It just became an eight."

* * * *

John calls Mary from the cab on the way to Baker Street to tell her not to expect him for dinner, but his expression changes as he listens to her response, excitement fading quickly to regret. Sherlock pretends not to notice, but disappointment flares in his chest.

"I'm sorry, I completely forgot," John says into the phone. He's nodding as if she can see. "Yeah, I know. I'll be there in an hour." He ends the call and looks at Sherlock. "I--"

"It's fine. Don't worry about it."

"We've got people coming to dinner and--"

"I said it's fine. You can do some searches when you get home, if you have time later tonight." He meant that to sound neutral, but there's an edge to it that John obviously hears.

"You know I'd rather be doing this than making polite conversation with the neighbors."

The cab glides to a stop in front of 221B, and Sherlock opens the door. "Just search on 'missing persons' and 'reward'. Look for websites that have no current activity. There will be no need for continuing the search if they believe the killer has been executed. We'll have Lestrade check the Met database for any names we come up with." He gets out, then leans down to give John an absolving smile. "I'll text you if I find anything promising." He closes the door and gives the roof of the cab a dismissing pat. 

Two hours later, Sherlock has a list of eleven names that potentially fit the criteria. Nine women and two men, all murdered within the past six years. Three of the websites actually mention that the only suspect in the crime was murdered. One goes so far as to post the name of the suspect and withdraws the offered reward. Case closed, it says without regard to the possible legal ramifications of accusing a dead man of murder. Sherlock adds Gerrold Wakefield as a potential victim of the serial vigilante.

Searching on the names from his list, he finds a site link that keeps showing up in the results. 'Karmasabitch.com' is a title that seems a bit too obvious. A serial vigilante would be unlikely to advertise so publically with a site name that's a virtual manifesto, but he learned long ago not to underestimate the human capacity for stupidity. The site turns out to be more in line with the cynical Darwin Awards. Criminals snared by their own stupidity. Several of the cases cited involve murderers who died accidentally in bizarre ways. It's likely that the search keeps including it in his results because a high percentage of its visitors also frequent the missing and murdered persons sites.

There are other sites that come up over and over. 'Findme.com' is a catalog of missing persons. 'Bodysearch.org' sounds like a porn site, but turns out to be a repository of unidentified bodies from all over the world, complete with details on where and when each was found, sometimes including photo reconstructions of the faces or pictures of belongings found with the bodies.

Websites established by the victims' families are filled with images and stories that are clearly designed to inspire empathy and generate tips. Of the eleven potential victims on his list, only four have sites in their honor. 

His phone pings a text notification at 3:30 in the morning. John's disjointed message is evidence that he's exhausted, but he's found sixteen possibilities, and mentions the same website Sherlock has been running into. He texts back that he's going to take the list to Lestrade in the morning. John's immediate reply is to ask what time Sherlock wants him to be there.

* * * *

The third floor studio flat on Craven Street has been his home for the past ten years, but the only improvements he's made to its utilitarian decor in all that time is the addition of flat screen computer monitors to give him more room on the worktable that takes up the entire north side of the room. His tiny kitchen occupies the southwest corner, and his sofa bed takes up the rest of the south wall, leaving a narrow space for access to the tiny bathroom. 

There are four desktop computers and two laptops on his worktable, all wired to a high speed Internet connection. It's a sophisticated set up that speaks of a hobby that turned into an obsession, and he spends nearly all of his free time and most of his disposable income supporting it. Money and time well spent. Very well spent.

He's waiting for his microwave dinner to finish heating up when one of the monitors emits a ping, and he glances over his shoulder. He has several multi-player games in progress, but this isn't coming from one of those. It's the PC at the end of the group. The one that monitors his favorite sites. The microwave chimes a moment later, and he retrieves his meal and takes it to the table to see what's triggered the alarm. He sits down and starts to bring a forkful of potato to his lips, then freezes. He frowns at the message.

His computer skills are entirely self-taught. The program he wrote to keep an eye on site traffic has recorded an unusual number of hits from the same IP address. Another ping draws his attention to a second site, and his frown deepens. Pushing the cooling dinner aside, he starts checking the remaining sites. Two IP addresses, the same on each site. Traffic well beyond what is normal. The same IP addresses hitting not only the monitored sites, but the links they contain. All related to the project. 

It takes him less than ten minutes to identify one of them, and he's suddenly very glad that his dinner was interrupted. The way his stomach has begun to twist, it would have had unpleasant consequences. The IP address leads him to its owner's website. It's one he's visited himself, though not recently. 

'The Science of Deduction' 

Sherlock Holmes. Scotland Yard's favorite consulting detective. Looking at these sites. The implications are disturbing.

But it could be nothing more than coincidence. Curiosity. It's much too soon to be drawing conclusions, especially the kind that are currently tying his belly in knots. Don't overreact. Gather data, and make an informed decision.

He opens the settings menu on his tracking program and starts recording.

* * * *

end of chapter 3


	4. The universe is rarely so lazy

**A/N - Sorry for the long wait. Virtual chocolates and digital hugs to Jolie Black, 7percentsolution, and Anyawen for gently kicking my butt back on track. Your comments and reviews go a long way toward keeping it there. --GW**

* * * 

Mary wakes to the sounds of John finally getting ready for bed, trying to be very quiet in the bathroom brushing his teeth by the small nightlight and running the water in the sink at a trickle. The alarm clock says it's almost four a.m. He started working on his laptop at the kitchen table almost as soon as their guests left last night, and he was still at it when she came upstairs just after midnight. She didn't ask what he was doing, but it's not hard to guess that it has something to do with Sherlock. That's who he was with when she called to remind him to come home last night. She can always hear it in his voice, a quality that's something between a soldier on guard, and a little boy up to mischief. He's never asked how she always manages to suss out his Sherlock moments, and she's not sure she could explain it if he did.

But right now, it's four in the morning, and he's due at the clinic at nine o'clock for his shift. He'll barely be able to keep his eyes open, let alone do justice to his patients. Intervention is called for. 

She hears him open the door, tiptoe across the carpet to his side of the bed and slide gingerly under the covers. 

"John," she says softly, touching his shoulder so he rolls over to face her. She knows he can see her in the dim glow filtering through the curtains from the street lights. "What are you doing?"

"Sorry," he whispers. "Go back to sleep."

She reaches over and turns on the bedside lamp, making them both squint. "Are you working on a case?" She raises herself up on one elbow.

"Sort of." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "I stopped by to see Sherlock, and he got a call from Molly while I was there. I went along to Bart's, and he asked me to do some research for him."

She touches his cheek, and he leans into it. "You're going to fall asleep at your desk."

"Again." He smiles. "Really, I'll be fine, but I do have to meet Sherlock at eight. We're going to see Greg. I don't have to be at the clinic until ten." He yawns widely.

"Nine," she corrects him. "He's going to need you longer than that."

John shakes his head. "He only brought me along because I was there when he got the call. He'll do just as well on his own."

She hears the same disappointment that was in his voice last night when she called. He had done his best with their dinner guests, and managed to look interested and engaged, but she could tell where his mind was. Sherlock's absence is never complete. Not when they thought he was dead, and certainly not now. She appreciates that John is trying to do what he thinks she wants, but he's got it wrong. "You have to stay on the case."

He pulls back a bit and looks at her. "I have a job."

"Yes, and it can wait. You need to help Sherlock. Reschedule the five days you were going to use for our trip to Brighton. Take them now, and go work with him. I'll hand your patients off to the other doctors. No one else is out this week. It will be fine."

"What about our holiday? You were looking forward to that."

She notices that he used the past tense, and it's all the confirmation she needs. "Go to sleep, and call the clinic in the morning. I'll take care of the rest." She turns off the lamp. 

John is smiling. She can hear more than see it. "Mary, have I told you lately that you are the love of my life?"

I'm one of them, she smiles to herself. "Have I told you lately that you're the best thing that's ever happened to me?" She kisses the tip of his nose. "Sweet dreams."

He's snoring softly before she's even got her pillow pushed into shape.

* * * *

Sherlock opens John's email and prints the list of sixteen names. The sheer number tells him that John failed to adjust his search in response to the results he was getting, something Sherlock had done automatically and assumed John would also know to do. The list will need to be cleaned up, and he starts by crossing off the four that match his own list. He looks up the rest, and eliminates all twelve. John has neglected to filter out missing persons who are still missing, teenage runaways, and adults who have clearly disappeared of their own volition. 

They started with the three murdered suspects who Molly believes are victims of her serial vigilante: Michael Hartman, William McConnell, and Owen Brandt. Their Internet search has found four women whose families believe were murdered by men the police have identified but can't prosecute. Their websites offer rewards for information that will put these unnamed men away. They're all made-to-order for Molly's serial vigilante, if he exists. And if he does, he could easily have found these same cases.

But then what? He finds cases that need justice, but how does he get the names of the suspects? The families don't have access to them, according to Lestrade. So how could a vigilante get them?

Obviously, from someone who does have access, which is not as exclusive a group as it might seem. The investigating officer would know the identity of the suspects. The desk sergeant records the names of anyone brought in for questioning, even those that aren't pursued beyond the initial interview. And the interviews themselves are recorded on both audio and video. The vigilante has to be getting the suspects names from one of those sources. The question is, how? 

No, he corrects himself. Asking how the vigilante acquires the names of his targets assumes the vigilante exists, a premise based entirely on inference from a handful of potentially random cases. If anyone but Molly Hooper had come to him with this vigilante theory, he would have tossed them out of the flat. He's giving it more effort than it probably merits because he owes Molly more than he can ever repay, and not just for helping him two years ago. The hell she endured in silence because of that favor is something he's only recently begun to appreciate. A few days spent on a potentially dead end case is the very least he can do.

That's why he took her case, but it's not the reason he's sticking with it. There's the undeniable lure of getting to work a case with John again, and he recognizes the possibility that his objectivity may be affected by sentiment. If he wants to be honest, being able to spend time with John on even the flimsiest of excuses explains a lot of what he's done since he came back. The Christmas drinks party is one classic example. The excuses and opportunities are getting fewer by the day, and it won't be much longer before they're entirely gone. It's that looming inevitability that's fueling his interest in this case. It may be the last.

With that appallingly sentimental thought, he turns off the laptop and orders himself to sleep. 

* * * *  
When Sherlock gets into the cab in front of Baker Street at eight o'clock, he finds John sipping from a container of coffee, looking a bit like death warmed over. He wordlessly hands a coffee to Sherlock and yawns. 

"Long night?" This earns him the expected scowl. 

"I hope it was worth it." 

Sherlock nods. Probably not the ideal moment for a lesson on how to refine Internet searches. "Always." 

They find Lestrade's office empty, but he comes bounding in a moment later with his own mug of coffee. Sherlock hands him the list, and the DI's expression shifts from interest to disbelief as he scans it. "I know you don't think much of our investigative abilities, but seriously? Seven murder suspects ending up murdered themselves would be pretty hard to overlook."

Sherlock resists the urge to agree with him. "Humor me."

Lestrade snorts. "Like I never do." He lays the list next to his keyboard, fingers poised over the keys for a moment before he looks up at Sherlock. "What am I looking for?"

"We're testing a hypothesis that posits the existence of a serial vigilante who finds unsolved murders to avenge by surfing websites set up by victims' loved ones. We put together the list you have there by using the criteria we believe he would use. If any of the cases on the list are still unsolved, the next step will be to narrow the field to those that also had a single suspect."

"That's a lot of ifs," Lestrade states the obvious. 

"And if none of the cases fit the criteria, we'll be one step closer to disproving the hypothesis." 

Lestrade puffs out a breath. "Fair enough. I'll print a summary of any unsolved cases." He starts typing.

The printer begins to hum with the first case. Lestrade glances up at Sherlock as the second, then the third, and ultimately all four names appear to meet the requirements and are printed out. Lestrade picks up the stack and hands it to Sherlock. "Okay, you have my attention. They're all unsolved, and there does seem to be a single suspect in each, all unnamed."

"Unnamed meaning what?" John asks.

"Meaning they couldn't be arrested. The notes state that the investigations have reached an impasse. That's a euphemism for 'we know who did it, but we can't prove it'. If there were no suspects, it would say so."

Sherlock scans the text. "This one," he hands one of the summaries back to Lestrade, "has a suspect listed on the website. Gerrold Wakefield. The site says he's dead."

Lestrade types the name, and reads the screen for a moment. "He's dead, all right. He was found hanging by a leather belt looped around a towel rod in the bathroom of his flat, surrounded by porn magazines. The coroner ruled it a death by misadventure. Autoerotic asphyxiation."

Sherlock frowns. "Not a homicide."

"No," Lestrade confirms, "but if your vigilante had a hand in it, he could have made it look this way pretty easily, couldn't he?"

"You think there is something to this, then?" John looks as surprised as Lestrade.

"It's worth another look, at least. Like I said, seven dead murder suspects would be pretty noteworthy. You have four already. To find the names of the three remaining suspects, you'll have to go to the investigating officers. The names would be in their personal case notes."

"You can't look up the case notes from here?" Sherlock asks, handing the summaries to John.

"We all have our own files, and they're not accessible by anyone else. That allows us to record unproved theories that don't belong in an evidence file. It's a legal consideration."

John scans the sheets and looks up at Lestrade with a slight frown. "All four were handled by the same person. DI Thomas Masters."

Sherlock looks at Lestrade. "One DI on all four. What are the odds?"

Lestrade is shaking his head. "You know him, Sherlock. Masters is the straightest guy I've ever worked with, and he's assigned to a lot of homicides because he's one of the most experienced investigators we've got. It's coincidence." 

John frowns. "I've never heard of him." He looks at Sherlock. "You think he could be involved?"

"The universe is rarely so lazy. I think the fact that he's the investigating officer on all four cases needs an explanation." To Lestrade, "Is Masters in today?"

Greg picks up his phone and punches in a number. "Tom? Greg Lestrade." Pause. "Yeah, it's been awhile. Listen, I've got a couple of consultants looking into some cold cases, and they've got some questions for you, if you can spare them a few minutes." He shoots a warning look at Sherlock. "Great. Thanks. I'll send them down now." He hangs up the phone and folds his hands on the desk. "You tread lightly. I would bet my pension that you're nowhere close to the right answer here."

Sherlock gets to his feet. "Lightly. Of course." 

John follows him to the door and nods at Greg. "I'll do my best," he answers Greg's questioning look.

* * * *

Masters' office is identical to Lestrade's, but on the next floor down. He has the same cluster of desks just outside for the officers who report to him. All but one are currently vacant. The DS who is still at her desk glances up and nods. Masters' door is open, and it's obvious that he is not happy to see that the consultant Greg sent to him is none other than Sherlock Holmes. He stands. "I wondered why Greg didn't mention who he was sending down." His tone says he doesn't wonder anymore.

Sherlock introduces John, then steps aside so they men can shake hands.

"Dr. Watson," Masters says pleasantly. "I've heard good things about you." His glance at Sherlock is pointedly silent.

Sherlock and John take their seats in front of Masters' desk.

"We won't take up much of your time," Sherlock begins as he places the summaries on Masters' desk and gives them a push. "You were the investigating officer on these cases. We're looking for any that had a single strong suspect, but without sufficient evidence to prosecute."

Masters frowns and pulls the papers over in front of himself. He scans the names. "These all fit that description." He looks up at Sherlock. "But you already knew that." 

Sherlock smiles, treading lightly as promised. "The single suspects in these cases. Would you have the names?"

Masters crosses his arms. "I remember them. They tend to stick in your head when they get away with murder." His eyes narrow. "Is that what this is about? You think I screwed up? I know you think we're all idiots, Holmes, but if you're here on some kind of witch hunt--"

"Not at all," John cuts in. "This has nothing to do with the way the cases were handled."

"Right," Masters is still looking at Sherlock. "Then what's it about?"

"You said you recall the names. Do you know if they're still alive?" Sherlock asks, watching Masters closely for a reaction.

The DI obliges with a puzzled frown. "Why?"

"Pursuing a lead." He's being deliberately cryptic, pushing a button he knows from their past encounters.

"Drop the act and tell me what you're after." 

Sherlock sits back. "We're looking for a possible link to a current case." He sees John shift in his seat and give Sherlock a sidelong glance.

Masters rests his forearms on the desk and leans over them. "You never change. Fine. I'll give you the names, and no, I don't know if they're dead or alive. Why would I?"

"They may have been murdered by someone who takes exception to killers getting away with their crimes." 

"And you think that 'someone' might be me?" Masters snorts. "Does Lestrade know what you're up to?" He shakes his head as he picks up a pen and notepad and starts writing. "Sod that. He knows better. And so do you." He tears off the sheet of paper and shoves it and the summaries back across the desk. 

Sherlock smiles. "It's been a pleasure." He stands up and heads for the door.

John thanks Masters for his time, and follows after Sherlock.

While they wait for the lift, John clears his throat. "You two have a history, I take it?"

The lift doors open and Sherlock steps inside. He shrugs. "It was shortly after I began working with Scotland Yard. He took exception to my methods."

John smiles. "Imagine that."

* * * 

Greg looks up the names Masters gave them and finds that only two are open homicides. The other two were ruled accidental, but both of those involved asphyxiation. "Sherlock, none of these fit what you said you were looking for. The homicides both had obvious defensive wounds, so the paralytic drug you thought was the murder weapon seems to be ruled out. All you have is a group of seven suspected killers who died over a six year span. I'll admit, it seems odd, but where's the link?"

Lestrade has a point. The same point Sherlock has suspected himself of avoiding. The drug link that Molly thought she had found has been only tentatively established in one case, and merely suspected in two others. Two of the seven aren't even homicides. The Internet could still be a common factor, but they already have an exception. James Anderson did not put up a website. The only mention of his wife's attack was on news sites, and very few of those. Her death was mentioned in a small single-column article on one news site. "There may not be a link."

"What?" Lestrade and John say it in unison.

"We still don't know that there's a vigilante to find." He gets up and walks to the window, needing to move but lacking the floor area for a proper pace. "Masters didn't know that these suspects were dead. Maybe suspects ending up dead isn't that unusual. Since the assumption that Hartman's murder was related to his victim's death is what got us thinking there might be a vigilante, it's obvious that we need to establish whether that assumption is correct." He looks at Lestrade. "Would you necessarily know if a suspect died after a case was no longer active?"

Lestrade frowns. "Maybe. I guess it would depend on how recent the case was. I'm not quite old enough to be reading the death notices every day, so unless they died in some spectacular way that made the papers, probably not."

"The only link we have established is that they were suspected of murder, and they're dead. We need to determine if that combination is even exceptional. If not, then there's no case." Sherlock comes back to his chair and drops into it. "So, how do we find out?"

Lestrade picks up a pencil and starts flipping it between two fingers, deep in thought for a moment. "I think I know someone who can help. Bring your paperwork." He gets up and heads for the door.

They catch up with him at the lift as he presses the button for the basement. "There's a storage room for evidence from active cases. I'm going to introduce you to the man who keeps track of it." The lift doors open, and they all get in. "Aside from the main evidence database, there's an unofficial one that's a goldmine of trivia that the sergeant has been keeping for years. If there are more dead murder suspects out there, he might be able to find them."

The doors open onto a corridor that looks very much like the one they just left. Instead of the expected bare cement walls and floors, it's brightly lit and painted. The floor is identical to the linoleum in the main part of the building. "Down here," Lestrade tells them, and heads down the hall to where it ends at a gray painted steel door marked "Evidence Locker". Lestrade swipes his entry card in the card reader to the left of the door. A green light appears, and the door unlocks with a metallic clank.

The space on the other side of the door makes no pretense of being anything but a basement. The ceiling is much higher than the corridor behind them, and overhead fluorescent lights are suspended from it on long cables. Most of the area is devoted to floor-to-ceiling ranks of metal shelves stacked with identical plastic storage boxes. A workbench on the right holds a printer and three fat binders. Two desks are placed back to back opposite the workbench, one with a computer monitor and keyboard. The other belongs to the man they're here to see.

A balding, paunchy man in his fifties stands as they enter. "Detective Inspector. What can I do for you, sir?" 

Lestrade introduces them. "Sergeant Will Power, this is Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson."

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow, and the sergeant chuckles. "Yeah, my mum had quite the sense of humor. My sister's name is Emily. Em Power, but she'll give you the death stare if you call her that." He grins. "But then, you've probably heard a comment or two about your own name," he tells Sherlock good naturedly. "No offense."

Sherlock smiles. "None taken."

Greg nods at Sherlock. "He'll give you the details, but I brought them down here to do some research on your computer." Emphasis on 'your' draws a nod of understanding from Power. "I'd appreciate any help you can give them."

"I'll do whatever I can, sir." He turns to Sherlock. "If you'll come with me?" He goes to the computer desk and pulls out the chair, waiting for Sherlock.

"Stop by my office when you finish up here," Greg tells Sherlock on his way out the door.

Sergeant Power sits down when Sherlock and John join him. He starts tapping keys as he talks. "I can go through the basics, and you can take it from there, if you want. I've got all the time you need, if you want me to do the searches for you. Up to you."

Sherlock walks to the opposite side of the desk so he can see the sergeant's face rather than the screen. "If you don't mind, I'd like to hear about how you came up with this unofficial gold mine."

Power stops typing and meets Sherlock's gaze. "'Unofficial' is the operative word, you do know that, right? It's not quite top secret, but close enough." 

"We've been so advised," Sherlock agrees.

The sergeant looks up at John, who nods. "Okay, then. I didn't actually come up with it. The man who had this job before me did most of the groundwork. I've added to it over the past eight years. Upgrades and what not. Had some help with that from our tech guru, but mostly I just add the bits of information that look useful."

John is standing at Power's right, watching the screen. "How do you decide what to add?"

"Experience, and gut instinct. I was in the investigative end of it for a few years, and you pick up on what might come in handy later on. What I keep track of is information that isn't, strictly speaking, officially part of the record. Speculation. Unproved theories." He looks at Sherlock. "I get the impression that's the kind of thing you're after."

"Actually, yes," Sherlock agrees. "We're looking for murder suspects who became murder victims. They won't be listed as official suspects, and they won't be in the official case records, but they may be in the investigating officer's personal case notes. Do you ever see those personal notes?"

Power frowns. "Not very often, no. They worry that I might accidentally enter personal notes in the official record." He looks mildly offended. "I would never do that, of course, but I understand the concern. Could blow an entire case, if the defense got hold of it."

"You said 'not very often'. That suggests that you do see them occasionally." Sherlock passed his tolerance for small talk with the name discussion.

"Sure, sometimes. I can't recall any specific instances offhand, but if the investigator asked me to include a name, I wouldn't necessarily know that it was a suspect. Could be a witness."

"Yes, and what do you do with those names, should you be asked to record them? Is there a designated field?"

Power taps keys and points at the screen. "There's a free form field here. Fifty characters. I add notes there in a sort of abbreviated language that makes it easier for the program to find. One example of a key I've added is whether victims are found inside or outside. If inside, then what room. I started doing both of those keys a few years ago, and one of the DI's solved a case with the fact that a serial liked to leave victims in the bathroom."

Sherlock nods. "Excellent. Can you search it?"

"It takes a long time for the program to go through all that information, but sure. I just need to know what to look for."

"Any case where the victim is mentioned in the free-form field of another case. Do you think you could do that search for me?"

Power winces. "That's a bit beyond anything I've tried to do before. You might need our tech guy. He comes in twice a month to tidy things up in this database as well as the one the DI's use for their case notes. Daniel Manning. He's due in next week. I can't put you in touch with him before that without calling to get his okay. Manning's a bit of an oddball. He nearly took my head off a few months ago for giving his phone number to one of the gals from Forensics. Sorry. I can't afford to end up on the bottom of his list when I've got a problem here."

"I understand. I think we can handle this without bothering him." They'll get Manning's contact information from Lestrade and avoid giving the subject advance warning. "Would you be willing to let me try setting up the search for you?"

The sergeant hesitates. "I imagine you wouldn't ask if you didn't know what you're talking about, but if anything happened to screw this up, it would be my job. Are you sure you can do it?"

"I'm sure, but you might feel more comfortable if we get DI Lestrade's approval. Did you want to call him?"

Power purses his lips for a moment, then nods and gets up from his chair. "No need. Have at it, then."

Sherlock sits down and identifies the software. It's a fairly straightforward SQL database. "How did you code the names?"

"Last name, space, first name. The first two letters are uppercase 'NM' followed by a hyphen."

Sherlock nods. He quickly writes and tests the query that will identify and store the names in a temporary table. Then he saves it and adds an icon that will execute the script.

Power is standing behind him, looking over his shoulder. "You do know what you're doing," he says, obviously impressed. "You and Manning would get along fine."

Sherlock smiles briefly. "Click on this icon when you get ready to leave tonight. It will produce a table of names from the database that we'll use to do the next search."

"So, you don't really need Manning, then?"

"I don't think so. I may have some questions about the security and access to the database at some point, but you needn't bother him with it now."

Power smiles with relief. "That's good. And I won't mention that you've been tinkering." Power winks. "He's very protective of his baby."

Sherlock gets to his feet. "You've been very helpful, Sergeant." He gives Power his mobile number. "Please let me know in the morning if the query has finished searching. There will be a message on the screen."

"Sure thing." Power offers his hand, and Sherlock shakes it. John follows suit.

As soon as the door closes behind them, John says, "Big hands. Very firm grip."

Sherlock nods. "Same as DI Masters. And Philip Anderson. And me, for that matter." 

John chuckles. "Well, all but the grip. You've got long fingers, but you're not in the same league in the bone crushing department."

Sherlock gives him a look. "Just because I don't crush bones when I shake someone's hand doesn't mean I can't."

"Yeah, well don't feel the need to demonstrate." He glances at Sherlock's hand as he presses the lift button. "Are we coming back here in the morning?"

"As soon as the sergeant calls to tell me the query is finished. I'll take the names it produced and write another query that will look specifically for pairs of cases where the murder victim in one also appears in the free-form field in the second." He waits for John to put it together.

It doesn't take him long. "And each pair of cases would represent an innocent victim, and her killer."

"Exactly."

"How many do you expect to find?"

The lift doors open on Lestrade's floor. "There should be very few, if we're right about a serial killer being responsible. If it turns out that dead murder suspects are more common than we think, then the seven we've found aren't an anomaly at all, no matter how odd it seems at first glance."

John considers this. "And if it's not unusual, that would be evidence that there's no serial killer after all."

"It would discredit one of the few indicators, yes."

"But not finding more of them wouldn't necessarily prove that we have a serial killer, either." John looks mildly disgruntled.

"You're catching on." From John's frown, Sherlock realizes this didn't come across as a compliment. "If we can get this tech guru's address from Lestrade, can you go with me to interview him? Or do you have more dinner plans?"

The frown melts. "I'm all yours for the next five days, in fact. Mary insisted. She gave up a five day holiday in Brighton so I'd have time to work with you."

John clearly sees this as proof of Mary's generosity, but it feels more like charity. Or pity. It hasn't escaped Sherlock's notice that Molly and Lestrade, and now Mary, have all seemed a bit overly pleased to see John with him. He wonders if they share his sense that his time with John is ending. He pushes the thought away, and the twinge of loss along with it. "Excellent. I'll keep you busy." He finds himself looking forward to proving the existence of a serial killer with a totally inappropriate sense of pleasure, and feeling not one whit of guilt.

* * * *

Lestrade is talking on his phone when they enter, and he gestures for them to wait. He ends the call a moment later, and sits back. "Got it solved?" 

"Daniel Manning. I need to contact him."

"Who the hell is Daniel Manning?"

"According to Sergeant Power, he's the computer consultant who does the maintenance on all of the databases, including the main database and the ones the DIs use for their personal files."

Lestrade's face lights with recognition. "Oh, okay. Dan the Man. Yeah, he's one the consultants they hired after the staff cut backs. Let six people go, and then hire the same number of consultants at twice the price. What kind of sense does that make?" 

John, who has done locum work himself, seems to take umbrage. "Consultants cost less because there are no benefits involved. And you can dismiss them without cause. It's the way things are done now."

Greg glances up at John. "Yeah, maybe. It's all a little too cold blooded for my taste." He turns to his computer. "His phone number will be listed, but I'll have to contact personnel to get his address, if you need it."

"I need the address," Sherlock confirms. "And I don't want him to know we're coming."

Greg stops typing and picks up the phone. It takes a bit of persuasion to pry the home address out of the personnel department, and Sherlock is pleased to hear Lestrade caution the person he's talking to that this is a confidential inquiry and there is to be no mention of the request to Manning.

Greg hands Sherlock the Post-it note that he used to jot down the information. "He's in West Hampstead."

Sherlock consults his internal map and comes up with an approximate 25 minute commute at this time of day. IT consultants spend a lot of time at home, and the chances are good that they'll catch him there at the lunch hour. That allows time for a few more questions. "What made Sergeant Power trade investigating crimes for cataloging evidence?"

Greg studies him for a moment. "Didn't I hear you say 'this is not the work of a disgruntled policeman'?"

"You're assuming he's a suspect because I want to know more about him?"

Greg sits back hard enough to rock his chair. "Are you saying you're just curious?" His expression says how likely he finds that possibility.

John's raised eyebrow echoes Greg's question.

Sherlock looks from John to Lestrade, hoping for a spark of understanding without the need to lead them to the obvious. He exhales, not quite a sigh of exasperation, but close enough. "We had to go directly to the investigating officer to get the names of the suspects. They're not listed anywhere outside Scotland Yard. It seems fairly obvious that Scotland Yard has to be where the vigilante is getting them, too. Either the information is being deliberately leaked, or it's being stolen."

Greg gets up and closes the door, then leans against it with his arms folded over his chest. "This is sounding more and more like a copper who's had his fill of the lawyers letting the guilty off the hook. There's not a one of us who hasn't had the thought, I can tell you that. Get a group of us together at the right time with a few pints, and you'll hear that message loud and clear. I've never known of anyone acting on it, but the urge is there more often than we'd like to admit. If that's what's going on here, I can't leave it to you."

Sherlock gives Lestrade an look. "If you bring in an official investigation, you'll never find him. This has probably been going on for longer than we know, and whoever is responsible clearly knows how to avoid detection. If you get his guard up, he'll close down and disappear. No one else will be killed, but he'll never pay for the murders he's already committed. He knows how to work the system. He hates it, but he knows how to use it."

Lestrade uncrosses his arms. "Then you do believe it's one of us?"

"No, but it is someone who has access to your files. That's why I want to start with Manning. I want to see how secure he thinks his system is."

Lestrade returns to his desk, and Sherlock sits back down in his chair.

"Now, tell me how Power ended up in his current job."

Lestrade presses his lips together in a frown. "Eight years ago, he was the investigating officer on a case where a woman claimed she was being stalked by a man she had dated years before. She said he was calling her in the middle of the night, following her home from work. Showing up at pubs when she was out with friends. There was no proof. Her friends never saw the guy. There was no record of the phone calls she claimed he was making. She had a history of emotional problems, and the man she accused of stalking her was as normal as they come. Recently married. Good job. Power talked to him, and it seemed pretty clear that the woman was imagining it all." Greg takes a breath and huffs it out. "No proof until she called 999 in a blind panic one night and said he was there at her flat, threatening her with a knife. The police arrived in time to see him running down the street, covered in her blood."

John winces. "There was nothing he could have done, but he thought it was his fault."

Greg nods. "He was off work for three months after that. When he came back, they put him in the evidence room, and he's been there ever since."

"Was the man convicted?" John asks.

"Yes. He's in prison for the rest of his life."

Sherlock flicks a bit of lint from his sleeve. "Then Power has nothing to avenge. The killer has been punished."

John frowns. "But it might make him very sensitive to other killers getting away with it."

Lestrade seems to agree. "It was enough to make him stop working in the field. I don't think you can eliminate him ."

Sherlock exhales his impatience. "Until we have more data, everyone at Scotland Yard is a potential source, and anyone they talk to is a potential suspect." 

"You're sure you don't want this opened as an official investigation?" Lestrade clearly disagrees.

Sherlock and John are halfway to the door. Sherlock turns. "We don't know that we have a vigilante, but if we do, that is the surest way to drive him underground where you'll never find him." However, Lestrade's concern is legitimate. "You will have plausible deniability, if this turns into an internal matter. We will not involve you in any further speculation until we have something solid. Agreed?"

Lestrade sighs heavily. He nods. "This is the most convoluted mess I've ever run across, and you're not making it any clearer. That's a first, by the way. You investigating a case with so many holes. What's the attraction?"

"I'm bored." The lie comes easily, and he walks out of the office before Lestrade can respond.

* * *

The cab ride to Hampstead takes twice as long as Sherlock expects because of a lorry crash that holds them up for thirty minutes. By the time the cab pulls up in front of Manning's address, it's nearly one in the afternoon. 

It takes another few minutes to find the entrance to the flat down a narrow passage between two converted Georgian houses. Manning's studio is on the ground floor hidden from the street by a large trellis that's still covered in unpruned and withered rose vines. 

Sherlock knocks sharply on the door. A moment later, it's opened by a man in his early thirties who is about John's height. His thin face, ginger hair, and black horn-rimmed spectacles make him look shy and studious. His deep brown eyes widen as he looks up at Sherlock, and his mouth hangs open in surprise.

"Daniel Manning?" Sherlock inquires politely. "I'm Sh--"

"Oh my gosh, I know who you are," Manning cuts him off, then looks at John. His mouth closes around a huge smile. "Sherlock Holmes. And Dr. Watson." He looks back at Sherlock, clearly delighted.

John tries unsuccessfully to smother a grin. "It's nice to meet you. May we come in?"

"What? Oh, I'm an idiot. Of course." He steps back and holds the door wide.

Sherlock steps through first, followed by John, who nearly bumps into his back when Sherlock stops just a few feet inside. There's literally nowhere to go. The room is small to begin with, and the clutter on every surface has spilled onto the floor. It's all books and papers, stacked and piled and falling over into untidy heaps. Not dirty, going by the absence of odor, but unbelievably crammed to the rafters.

"I'm sorry for the mess," Manning says as he manages to come in far enough to close the door behind them. "I never seem to notice it until somebody drops by." He edges around them and starts rearranging the debris on the sofa to make a place for them to sit down. He's blushing furiously.

"Don't worry about it. We'll just stand," John tells him, glancing up at Sherlock. "I know someone else who enjoys organized chaos."

Manning stops fussing and turns to face them. "I couldn't believe it when I saw you at my door. I can't tell you how many times I've been on your website. 'The Science of Deduction'. My gosh, you're amazing." He blushes even harder. "I mean..." He looks at John. "And I read your blog, too. It's better than any detective novel anyone's every written."

Sherlock glances pointedly at the stacks of books. "You can speak with some authority."

Manning follows Sherlock's gaze self-consciously. "Yeah, well not all of them are novels. I've got a lot of technical manuals in there, too." He takes a deep breath. "I just can't believe you're here." He pauses as the obvious question dawns on him. "Why are you here?"

"You work on the databases at Scotland Yard?" Sherlock begins.

"Sure do. For the past four years." He crosses his arms, less awed now, but still staring openly at Sherlock.

Sherlock comes directly to the point. "How hard would it be for someone to break into the system?"

Manning uncrosses his arms. "What?"

"Specifically the database that is kept in the evidence room. I wondered if you had put any security in place since the system is intended for internal use only and is somewhat... unofficial."

The man hesitates, then shakes his head. "All of the databases are secure. It took a lot of overhauling, mind you. The guy who put together the one you're talking about didn't put any security into it at all, but it wasn't connected to the main system at the time."

"And it is now?" Sherlock wasn't sure until this moment that outside access was possible.

"Sure," Manning says. "I needed Internet access to support it remotely, just like the main. But the firewall is very secure. More so than most." That last part is said with obvious pride in his work.

"Did you make that change when you first began supporting it? Four years ago?"

"Yes. But you still haven't said why you think it's been hacked."

John picks up on where Sherlock is headed. "Before you added the remote connection, the only access was through the computer in the evidence room?"

"Yes. There aren't even that many people who know it exists." He crosses his arms again. "Now please tell me what this is all about."

"Would you be able to tell if anyone had accessed the records without authorization?"

"Yes, of course. The security software would text me a warning immediately. And there would be a record in the logs."

Sherlock suddenly realizes what's missing in the chaos of this flat. "Where is your computer set-up?" There's not even a clear surface to place a laptop.

Manning follows Sherlock's gaze, flushing all over again. "I do most of my work on site, not remotely. Remote access is for emergencies when I can't get to the site fast enough. In those cases, I use my laptop."

Sherlock smiles. "I apologize, Mr. Manning. I know you take a great deal of pride in your work, and it was not my intention to suggest that you do it badly." He catches John's brief puzzled look from the corner of his eye.

Daniel Manning studies Sherlock for a long moment. "Yeah, okay. I understand wanting to find out if the system is secure, but why not just call me and ask?"

Sherlock's smile remains. "Would you have believed it was me calling you?"

Manning's posture relaxes and the star struck smile comes back. "Probably not. You're right. It's really an honor to meet you, honestly. I'm a bit of a fan of your work." He nods to John. "Both of you have my dream job. Catching uncatchable criminals. Solving crimes when the police can't figure it out. If you ever need a hand with your website, I'd be happy to help. No charge."

Sherlock offers his hand, and Manning shakes it enthusiastically. "I wouldn't think of taking advantage of you, Mr. Manning. Your customary fees would apply."

Manning beams. "Any time." He shakes John's hand, then glances around and spots his phone on the cluttered work surface by the sink. "Could I have your mobile number? I'll take a look at the security logs, just to make sure. I could let you know what I find."

"It's on the website."

Manning nods. "Yeah, I knew that." He puts the phone back, looking a little sheepish. 

"But I'll take your number, if you don't mind," Sherlock says, then keys the number Manning gives him into his own phone.

Outside, they walk up toward the main road in search of a cab. 

"So what were you apologizing for, other than effect?" John asks, dubious smirk firmly in place. 

"Aren't you the one who preaches the advantages of honey over vinegar?" 

John snorts. "The last thing he needs is encouragement. I thought he was going to ask for your autograph."

Sherlock spots a cab halfway down the block and steps to the kerb, arm raised. As he flags it down, he gives John a narrow look. "You didn't think that seemed a little forced?"

John looks at him. "No, not at all. Why?"

The cab stops in front of them, and they get in. Sherlock directs the cabbie to Baker Street before he answers. "I think feigning surprise is an excellent way of disguising something else."

"Something else. Like what?"

Sherlock turns to look out the window. "Like not being surprised at all."

* * * 

He unlocks the door to his flat and strides to the bank of computers to scan the messages on each screen. It's been a day full of surprises, none of them pleasant. He expects the trend to continue in his message queue. 

Sherlock Holmes is on his trail, and it is only a matter of time before the genius detective realizes what he's found.

He's always known that one day he might be faced with this choice. Allow himself to be caught, or do whatever it takes to protect the Project. Allow deadly predators to remain free to kill again, or take one innocent life to save the countless potential victims of the men he's been eliminating. The ones the law can't touch. Victims like Jessica. If someone had had the courage to do what was necessary back then, she would still be alive. How can he condemn the men who let her killer go free, and not show courage to do better himself? 

The deaths he's been responsible for up to now have been executions, not murders. But what he's considering now could be called nothing else.

* * * * 

End of Chapter 4


	5. Under a flag of truce

**A/N - Humble thanks to the incomparable Jolie Black and 7PercentSolution for their speedy beta and encouraging words in all the right places.**

*** * ***

John returns from the kitchen with his third mug of tea and resumes his post in the middle of the living room watching Sherlock work the wall behind the sofa. He's been at it nonstop since they returned from their interview with Daniel Manning. The tea John made for him has been cold for more than an hour, and he's still wearing his coat and scarf. The wall is now covered with Post-it notes and full size sheets of paper in various colors, all in Sherlock's cryptic scrawl. John tried talking to him during the initial flurry of activity, but gave up when the answers he was getting made no more sense than the brain dump collage that now stretches the length of the sofa and climbs nearly to the ceiling. A moment ago, Sherlock set off on a monologue that seems at least partly directed at John.

"Seven dead murder suspects are statistically significant, no matter how they died." Sherlock finally sheds his coat and drops it on the sofa, followed by the scarf, then starts pacing in the space between the sofa and the coffee table. His hands are in motion, long fingers spread, indicating the various groups of data that make sense only to him. "The Internet isn't the link. Anderson breaks that pattern." He moves to the opposite end to a group of notes layered over one another in a pyramid shape. "Anderson breaks the timing pattern as well. None of the others died so soon after the deaths of their victims. No other victim survived the initial attack except Anderson." He moves to the center and pulls three notes from their current positions and moves two to the left side, and one to the right, then steps back and steeples his fingers against his lips.

John sips his tea, expecting the monologue to resume shortly, but Sherlock remains motionless and silent. Minutes pass, and John walks over to confirm his suspicion.

"Sherlock?" There is no response, but he didn't really expect one. He's never seen Sherlock go into his Mind Palace standing up before, but that's clearly where he is.

John takes his tea to his chair and settles in for the wait.

Sometime later, Sherlock's mobile starts ringing from the sofa, and John gets up to dig it out of his coat pocket. The caller ID says it's Molly Hooper, and John swipes the answer icon with his thumb. "Hello, Molly. It's John."

"John? I'm sorry, I thought I called Sherlock."

"You did." He glances up at Sherlock's unfocused gaze and walks back to his chair. "He's taking a walk through his Mind Palace just now, looking for clues."

Her voice smiles in his ear. "That's a good sign, isn't it? It means he's got something to work with?"

"Usually, yeah." _Either he's onto something, or he's gone there out of sheer frustration._ "What's on your mind?"

"Oh, right. I've got the results on the succinylcholine test for Michael Hartman. Inconclusive, I'm afraid. No metabolites that they could identify. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. We wouldn't be working this case if you hadn't caught the connection to the others. You did great."

"Do you think I was right, then?" She makes a distressed sound and he can picture her face. "Oh, I didn't mean that to sound so happy. I don't want to be right about a serial killer on the loose."

"I know, Molly. But don't forget that if he is out there, you're the reason his luck is running out. Do you want me to have Sherlock call you back?"

"No, that's okay. He'll let me know if he needs anything." She hesitates. "How are you doing, John? Working with him again, I mean."

"Just like old times," he says in a cheery tone that sounds forced, even to his own ears. But it _is_ like old times. A bit.

"Oh." Molly seems to have heard it, too. "But it's not really, is it?"

If the words were coming from anyone but Molly, they might feel like a deliberate jab at a very sore spot. Her sympathy is almost as difficult to bear, and he lifts his chin. "It's good, Molly. We're fine."

"I just know how I would feel-- how I _felt_ when he asked me to work with him before-- before you... He didn't really want me there. He was just being kind." She hesitates, and her voice goes soft. "He wanted it to be you."

He knows she believes what she's saying. "It's complicated." _And if that's not a masterpiece of understatement..._ "But it's okay, Molly. Really." _It's getting there._

"Okay." She takes a breath. "You'll give him the results?" There's distance in her tone now, pulled back from a topic that shouldn't still be sensitive, but is.

"Yes. As soon as he comes back. Thank you, Molly." He means for more than the results, and hopes she hears it.

"You're welcome, John. Take care."

He sets the phone on the table beside him and leans back, eyes closed. It's not just Molly. He's noticed the way Greg, and even Mrs. Hudson, seem to be walking on eggs around him and Sherlock. No one seems sure how to see them. As best friends happily reunited, or uneasy allies under a flag of truce. He knows the confusion is at least partially his own doing. Greg knows too well how Sherlock's suicide crushed the life out of him. Greg is the one who came to his rescue that night in front of Bart's when he had seriously been considering heading up to the ledge himself, his strength stretched to the breaking point by the anniversary of Sherlock's death with no end in sight to the pain. Greg had been the one who drove him to the psychiatric hospital on Mycroft's tab, and then tried to stay in touch after his release. 'Tried' being the operative word. John had avoided him. Not just because he was ashamed of how close he'd come to giving up, but because there was no way to be in Greg's presence without feeling Sherlock's absence like a knife in his chest. He had avoided Mrs. Hudson, too. Although she still has the wrong idea about his relationship with Sherlock, she knows how much losing him hurt. They're waiting for a sign that things are truly back to normal, and he just hasn't been able to give it to them. It's not for lack of trying. It's just not quite there yet, and the scrutiny isn't helping.

The past two days have been filled with mixed feelings. He's still convinced that Sherlock would not have involved him in the case if he hadn't been here when the call came in from Molly. He's okay with that, but it would have meant so much get a call out of the blue at work to come join him. Sherlock has spent two years working alone. It's only natural that he would be more comfortable working that way now. It's not a comment on John's worthiness to work on the case. It's not a comment on anything. He needs to stop examining every nuance under a microscope. The thought makes him smile. Sherlock would appreciate the irony.

John looks over at Sherlock, then checks his watch and considers calling Mary to tell her he won't be home for dinner. He doesn't know how long Sherlock is likely to be mulling things over, and he wants to make sure he's okay before he leaves.

He switches on the fireplace to take the chill out of the room, and sits back in his chair with a fresh cup of tea to wait. A short time later, the soothing warmth combines with the four hours sleep to make him irresistibly drowsy. He puts down his mug and crosses his arms over his chest. He'll close his eyes for a moment.

When he opens them again, Sherlock is sitting across from him, and the late afternoon shadows in the room say that it's been a lot longer than the few seconds it seems. He sits up straight and winces at the twinge in his neck. "What time is it?"

"Miranda Anderson was not dead when the killer planned Michael Hartman's murder." Sherlock says it as if they're already in the midst of a conversation. "There wouldn't have been enough time to work out so many details if he'd waited until she died. Her death was incidental, not the motive."

John pinches the bridge of his nose, then glances at his watch. It's been more than two hours, and his nap has left him sluggish and irritable. "What are you saying?"

Sherlock steeples his fingers beneath his chin. "We assumed that the vigilante is avenging unpunished murders because of Miranda Anderson, but her case began as a rape, not a murder. The two others Molly found to support her theory are men who got away with murder, and that led us to link them on that basis."

"No, it wasn't just because the victims were suspected of murder. She was looking for cases that could have involved succinylcholine. She chose the two cases because the victims didn't try to defend themselves." His brain is coming back online now. "You seem to have discarded the drug connection, but that was the original link."

"There was no evidence to support it. It's basic victimology, John. Find the common factors and they will point to the killer. We've just focused on the wrong link. It's not the killers we need to look at, it's their victims, and being dead doesn't necessarily have to be one of the criteria. Miranda Anderson should have told us that. The killer didn't plan Hartman's murder in twenty-four hours, no matter how much practice he's had. Finding the best place to ambush him, and taking the chance of doing it in the underground garage, took advance planning. He was going to kill Hartman because of the attack, not because he expected her to die. Do you see?"

"You want to include victims who didn't die." John shakes his head. "Unsolved cases that include rape and assault. Going back how far? Isn't that going to be a huge number of cases?"

Sherlock smiles. "You're not giving the Yarders much credit."

"Oh, and you do." Greg would enjoy this. Sherlock defending the investigative abilities of Scotland Yard.

"I don't believe we're going to find dozens of unsolved assaults whose primary suspect has been murdered. In fact, I think the number will be exceedingly small. I also think the link to the killer will be among them."

John is tempted to ask for a recap of whatever went on in his trip to the Mind Palace that gave him this insight, but he knows better. He also knows better than to question its validity. This is the first time since they started on this case that Sherlock seems to be firing on all cylinders. "Okay, so what do we do with this?"

"You've already forgotten your question."

It's a typical Sherlock topic leap, and it takes John a moment to follow. "The one I asked in the cab on the way here? The one I asked again as we were coming up the stairs? You ignored me both times."

"I didn't ignore you. I didn't have the answer when you asked it."

"You want me to ask again? Okay. Why did you think Manning was only pretending to be surprised to see us?"

"He's hiding something."

John holds up one hand. "For those of us who don't have multiple trains of thought going simultaneously, could we try to complete one before we move on to the next? What links the victims if it isn't that they were murdered by men who got away with it?"

"They shouldn't have been victims of a violent crime at all."

"No one should be a victim of a violent crime."

"Ah, but that's not always true, John. People who lead risky lives and frequent high crime areas are statistically likely to meet with violence. The victims we know about so far should not have been victims, but they were. They were killed, or attacked, in places where they had every reason to feel safe. Two of them were killed by people they trusted, or should have been able to trust."

John digests this for a moment. "So, you think the vigilante is avenging them because they were innocent victims whose attacker got away with it. Scotland Yard's investigative skills aside, that still sounds like a big group."

Sherlock springs to his feet and heads for the sofa to grab his coat on his way to the door. "We're going back to edit the query and see what it turns up. Come on, John."

Getting into the taxi in front of Baker Street reminds John of the question he asked about Manning. "Hiding what?" He knows Sherlock will have no problem picking up where he left off without the need for a refresher.

"I was right about his surprise being a facade, but I was wrong about what he was hiding."

John makes no attempt to hide his smile. "Sorry? You were what?"

"Don't gloat, John. It's unbecoming. He didn't specifically know that we were coming, but he's been expecting someone for some time now. He already knew that the database has been hacked, and he's been trying to resolve it on his own before someone else found out. When he saw us, he knew why we were there because why else would two famous detectives show up at his door?"

John allows himself to bask briefly in the glow of 'two famous detectives'. "And then you asked him about hacking into the database and proved his suspicions were correct."

"Exactly."

John replays the interview in his head, but it's not lining up quite as clearly as it seems to have done for Sherlock. "I know I'm about to have my head handed to me, but what the hell. He seemed pretty damned convincing to me. He even offered to show you the security logs."

"Being a skilled liar is not a talent you would recognize, John, not being one yourself."

There is literally no comment John can think of that isn't going to bring up the very talented lie Sherlock sustained for two years. But the silence he chooses instead is apparently comment enough, going by the subtle change in Sherlock's posture.

"John." His tone is soft with regret.

John mentally shakes it off. _Let it go._ "Do you think he knows what the hacker is doing with the information?" He keeps his eyes forward, but he can see Sherlock watching him from the corner of his eye.

"That would make him an accomplice, and I think we would have seen a very different reaction. No, I think he's worried about losing his job and his reputation. He wants to find the hacker before the breach is discovered, but he hasn't been able to. If he had done, and if he'd confronted him, Manning would be dead now, too."

"Then shouldn't we tell him that we know what he's up to before he gets himself killed? He wants to be a crime fighter. We have his dream job, remember? Maybe he would help us find the hacker, if he knew why we were looking for him."

Sherlock gives him the pleased smirk that he reserves for these moments when John manages to read his mind. "Very good, John. We're going to do exactly that, after we finish editing the query. But this time, we're going to let him know we're coming. I want him to have time to think about it."

* * *

Sergeant Power takes his time coming to the door. Without Greg and his entry card, they can only knock briskly until he lets them in. Power's vaguely irritated frown melts into surprise when he sees who's calling.

"Well, hello again." He steps back so they can enter, then lets the door fall shut behind them. "Forget something?"

"Actually, yes. I need to make some changes to that query before you run it," Sherlock tells him, barely pausing on his way to the computer.

"Uh, sure. Yeah," Power replies to Sherlock's back, then gives John a puzzled smile. "Things change fast, don't they? You come up with new information since you were here?"

Sherlock glances up in surprise, although no one but John would recognize the expression. John turns to Power. "What makes you say that?"

Power's smile is full blown now. "No need to look so shocked. I was a detective myself for a while, remember. What did you find out, if you can tell me?"

"I thought of something that will narrow the results," Sherlock replies without looking up.

"You know, if you want some tips on how to search that file, you should talk to Manning. Better still, Cal Ellis. Could save you a lot of time."

"Cal Ellis?" John asks, trading glances with Sherlock.

"I thought I told you about him. He's the one who designed the database. Even after he left, he did the maintenance until they hired Dan Manning. He was a DI for something like 15 years before he came down here. If there's anyone who can explain how to find what you're looking for, it's Ellis."

Sherlock stops typing. "When was the last time you talked to him?"

"It's been a few years, but I know he's still around. Does system security work, last I heard."

Sherlock gets up from the computer desk. "Would you happen to have his number?"

* * * *

Sherlock calls Callum Ellis as they're walking out of the building. It is a very brief conversation. "Yes, of course. We only need a few minutes of your time." Pause. "I know the street. We will be there in ten minutes." He puts the phone back in his pocket and does his usual magic hailing a cab on the first try.

Ellis buzzes them in before they can ring, apparently having seen them pull up in front of the building.

He is standing in the open door of his flat on the first floor as they come up the stairs. "I can give you five minutes." He steps back inside, leaving the door ajar.

The flat is a studio, although much larger than the one Daniel Manning occupies across town. It's also the diametric opposite of Manning's in terms of tidiness and decor. Manning's was shabby chic and cluttered to the rafters. This flat is spotless and spartan, and there is a bank of computer equipment on a long table that takes up one entire wall.

Ellis himself is as different from Manning as their flats. He's as tall as Sherlock, but substantially more bulky. His hair is as short as Greg Lestrade's, but not as gray. Probably in his mid-fifties but with the shoulders and upper arms of someone who works out. His gaze is steady, and his eyes are ice blue. But his hands are what John is trying hard not to goggle at. They are massive, even for a man his size.

"You said you have questions about the database I set up," Ellis prompts. His arms are crossed, and his hands are tucked in, which relieves John of the need not to stare.

"The database has been hacked," Sherlock begins, taking John by surprise. It seems that Ellis' appearance has inspired Sherlock to throw subtlety to the winds.

Ellis frowns. "How is that my problem?"

"You don't seem surprised," Sherlock says mildly.

"Any database can be hacked. I haven't worked on that one in years. You should be talking to the man who maintains it now."

Ellis's expression is unreadable, but his voice has an edge that could be defensiveness, or guilt. John is suddenly wishing for the comforting weight of the Browning in his waistband.

Sherlock moves a step closer, not quite into Ellis' personal space, but eye to eye.

"Any database can be hacked by the right person. It occurs to me that no one would be better at hacking a database than the man who designed it. Is it true that all designers put in a back door so they can never be locked out?"

Ellis' gaze doesn't waver for an instant. "Information security is what I do for a living. If I wanted to access that database, I wouldn't need a back door." He chews his lip thoughtfully. "What do you think you know?"

"If I were to call Scotland Yard and ask their computer forensics expert to come take a look at your system, what might he find?"

Ellis drops his arms to his sides, and John tenses from head to toe.  
"I guess that would depend on what he's looking for." Ellis's voice has lost its edge and gone oddly soft.

Sherlock's expression shows surprise for just an instant. John doubts Ellis noticed, but to John it is stunning. Sherlock clearly didn't expect his question to elicit what amounts to a confession.

"What started it? Who did you lose?" Sherlock's tone is questioning, but not accusing.

Ellis crosses his arms, and his expression hardens. "I think it's time for you to go. I have work to do."

"It's over. Come back with us and talk to the police."

Ellis smiles. "I've talked to the police. I'm not doing that again. Now, if you don't mind, I have a deadline to meet." He walks to the door and holds it open for them.

"We will be talking again." Sherlock walks out into the hall.

John follows, pausing to give Ellis a warning look.

Sherlock waits until Ellis closes the door, then heads down the stairs and out to the street. He's on the phone when John catches up to him.

"No, you have to shut it down now before he can cover his tracks. And I need everything you have on him. We'll be there in a few minutes."

* * *

Greg listens to Sherlock's summary of their interview with Ellis, his expression growing darker with each passing moment. "Okay, how do we prove it?" He taps the folder on his desk. "Ellis was a damn good detective, and now he's a computer security expert. I don't care what he said that sounds incriminating, he's not going to have left any evidence for us to hang him with."

Sherlock takes the folder and flips it open. "We can find the trigger that started him on this path. Who did he lose? Circumstantial evidence is better than none."

Greg lifts his hands, palms up. "There's nothing in the file to suggest anything like that. He had an exemplary record for eighteen years, six of them as a DI. He spent two years in the Evidence room by his own choice, then he left."

"What made him trade the streets for the evidence room?" John asks. "If he was so good at being a detective, why the change?"

"It doesn't say, and I never heard."

Sherlock's page flipping accelerates. "There has to be something."

Greg shrugs. "Unless he's not the killer."

Sherlock gives Greg a look that says clearly what he thinks of that notion.

John shakes his head. "You wouldn't say that if you'd been there when we talked to him."

Greg sighs. "But I wasn't, and we'll play hell getting him to come in and talk to us now. The good news is that he'll probably stop now. Unless he's bent on getting caught after all, he'll know better than to try anything again."

Sherlock snorts. "Or he'll see it as a challenge." He gets up and walks to the window. A moment later, he turns to face Greg. "Who was he working with at the time he moved to the evidence room?"

"That's a good thought. His DS would be mentioned on the case reports."

While Greg types, Sherlock comes back to his seat and looks at John. "Who would know better than his partner what made him leave the streets for the evidence room?" He quirks a half smile before he turns back to Greg.

John recognizes that smile. It's Sherlock's way of saying that John has somehow inspired this interest in Ellis' partner. John knows he means it as a compliment, but he also knows that partners can't always be counted on to share their plans. Or the truth. An instant later, he's annoyed with himself for dwelling yet again on the unchangeable past. He smiles before the memory can show this time.

Greg stops typing and looks up at Sherlock. "Detective Sergeant Harry Wallace, now DI Wallace, was Ellis' partner at the time he switched jobs to the evidence room." He looks a bit stunned.

"And?" Sherlock prompts. "There's obviously more."

"I didn't know Ellis, but I have heard about Wallace. DS Wallace's wife Jessica was raped and nearly strangled to death in their home. I could look up the dates, but it was right around the time Ellis changed jobs. I think you've just found your trigger."

"Excellent." Sherlock closes the folder and drops it on Greg's desk. "We may need to interview DI Wallace to confirm, but I would say this is confirmation enough, for the moment. You need to put a tail on Ellis and keep it there until we sort this out. And they better be good. He won't be easy to follow."

"He won't get out of our sight." He picks up the phone, then pauses as Sherlock and John head for the door. "But don't let your guard down, just in case. He knows you're after him."

* * *

Daniel Manning is on his way back from the kitchen with a mug of black coffee, ready to continue his work, when he hears the warning ping from his laptop.

Frowning, he sits down and wiggles the mouse to clear the screen saver.

The message on the screen reads "Connection Lost"

"Shit." He clicks to reconnect and waits.

A new message pops up. "System Unavailable"

He stares at it for a moment, then goes in search of his phone. He either missed a call from Sergeant Power, or he's about to get one. He finds the phone under a magazine on the counter, but the screen shows no missed call. He takes it with him back to the laptop and scrolls through the system logs he managed to download before the connection was lost.

What he's seeing is nothing less than he expected. Nothing he can't handle. But the silence is worrisome, and he picks the phone up once more, then punches in Power's extension.

"Sergeant? It's Dan Manning. What's going on with the computer?"

"They shut it down," Power says, slightly out of breath. "I was just on my way out the door. They're sending me home until further notice. I gotta go."

Manning sits staring at the phone for a long time before he presses the power button and lays it face down on the table.

* * *

NOTE: The event where Greg rescues John in front of Bart's is shown from Greg's POV in chapter 7 of another story of mine, Something Borrowed.

* * *

End of chapter five


	6. Like a Ghost at Cockcrow

* * * *

**A/N - I can say with complete honesty that this chapter owes its life to JolieBlack and 7PercentSolution, and my medical beta who prefers her role as anonymous benefactor but whose contributions are vital (small medical pun). -GW**

* * *

Trudging up the stairs in the wake of Sherlock's two-at-a-time bound provides an unnecessary reminder that John is seriously in need of refueling. When he reaches the living room he finds Sherlock already busy at his laptop, his coat and scarf tossed in a heap on the coffee table.

"Jessica Wallace, 31, was the victim of a brutal attack in her home Thursday evening," Sherlock reads from the screen. "She is the wife of Detective Sergeant Harry Wallace of the Metropolitan Police Service." He turns to John. "4th September, 2005 Daily Mail."

John drops into his chair. "Any mention of a suspect?"

As if on cue, Sherlock's phone pings a text notification. He picks it up from the table to check the display, then lifts it in John's direction like a toast. "It's from Lestrade." He scrolls through the message. "Timothy Lawson, found dead of a drug overdose in his flat on New Year's Day, 2006. He had a history of drug abuse. They ruled it death by misadventure."

"Coincidentally involving an injection." John raises a hand to forestall the correction he knows is coming. "I know. The universe is rarely so lazy. It was misadventure, just not the kind they thought."

"He was Ellis' first victim. The one who set the pattern for the rest, although my original query would not have found him. He would have been at the top of the list from the revised version."

"Too bad we didn't have a chance to run it before the database was shut down," John offers, trying unsuccessfully to smother a yawn.

Sherlock turns in his seat and studies him for a moment. "You should go home."

John straightens immediately. "I'm fine, and I'm not leaving now. Not when we've almost got him."

"'Almost' might be overstating. We still have a lot of work to do." 

The typing resumes, and John watches him for a bit. "What are you looking for?"

"Anything that mentions Callum Ellis." He gives John a look that adds 'obviously'. "Aside from his computer business, there's not much. I'm going to have Lestrade restart the database in the morning long enough to run the query. We need the rest of his victims. One of them is going to link back to Ellis. Somewhere along the line, he's made a mistake. We just have to find it."

"Greg seemed pretty confident that he won't have left any evidence for us to find."

Sherlock snorts. "Lestrade is giving him too much credit because he was a DI."

"And you may be giving him too little for the same reason," John observes, smiling back at the expected scowl. "He _has_ gotten away with it for eight years."

"No one was looking for him. Murder victims as unsympathetic as the ones Ellis took down rarely merit an aggressive investigation. What did Molly call them? Public service homicides? He's not a criminal mastermind, John. He's just a killer who picked victims no one would care about."

"So, what turned a dedicated law enforcement officer into a serial killer? Even given the attack on his partner's wife, that's quite a transformation."

"Maybe he just reached his limit for seeing the guilty go free. You heard Lestrade. They've all considered taking the law into their own hands at some point. Ellis isn't the first to actually go through with it, and he won't be the last. The legal system is stacked in favor of the accused. That isn't likely to change."

"At least Ellis isn't an active duty officer. That would have been another black eye for the Yard, and for Greg because he let us run with it instead of starting an internal investigation."

Sherlock waves that comment away. "We gave him plausible deniability. His reputation would have been intact either way."

John is surprised by an abrupt flash of anger. "I know you don't have a--" He pulls it back, but not fast enough. 

Sherlock's gaze narrows. "I don't have a...what?" His voice is carefully even.

 _...a fucking clue what you did to us._ Deep breath. "You didn't see what Greg went through after you... left. I did. He nearly lost his job, Sherlock. He never doubted you, and it nearly cost him everything."

Sherlock's expression is unreadable. "Not as much as it cost you."

 _No. Not going there again._ "Look, just forget I said anything, okay? I'm out of practice working on four hour's sleep. It makes me touchy." _Let it go, Sherlock. Just let it the fuck go._

John's stomach chooses this moment to produce a comically loud gurgling growl that makes them both smile.

"And hungry," Sherlock observes dryly. "Why don't you go down to Speedy's and grab some food?"

"That's not a bad idea." _And a timely break._ "Do you want anything?" 

"Sure. Whatever you're having," comes the surprising response.

"Okay, then. I'll be right back."

He returns ten minutes later with sandwiches and two cups of soup to find Sherlock on his phone.

"He's just walked in," he tells the caller, then holds the phone out to John. "It's Mary. You weren't answering."

John sets the bag down on the desk next to the laptop and takes the phone. "Sorry, Mary. I forgot the ringer was muted. What's up?"

"I wanted Sherlock to just give you the message, but he insisted that I talk to you. I seem to have caught that stomach bug we've been treating all week at the clinic. I need you to stop on the way home and pick up an antiemetic." Her voice is thick with misery.

"I'll come now."

"No, don't do that. I can wait."

"Don't be silly. I'm not going to stay here while you're sick. Try to sip some water. I'll be there in an hour." He gives the phone back to Sherlock. "Sorry, I have to go. Mary's sick." He sniffs the aroma of hot soup and his stomach growls again. "I'll take that with me."

"Of course. It's fine." Sherlock is already back on the laptop.

John digs out his phone and calls in a prescription for Mary's nausea and vomiting to the chemist down the street who he has had on speed dial for years, for obvious reasons. It's only a five minute walk, and he can hail a cab from there. Before he leaves, he takes Sherlock's food out of the takeaway bag and sets it next to the laptop. "Don't forget to eat." 

Sherlock hums a noncommittal response.

John walks to the door with an odd sense of unease. "Do you want me to do anything online tonight?" He pauses in the doorway.

"We've got nothing to work with until we run the query." He looks up from the laptop. "Tell Mary I said hello."

"I will. Call me if anything comes up." He closes the door and sets out for the chemist's.

The queue at the prescription counter is disappointingly long and, as he soon discovers, barely moving. He's eleven people from the front, stuck between a woman with two unhappy toddlers, and a man who is making no attempt to cover his bone-racking coughs. It's likely to take so long to reach the front of the queue that he would probably get to Mary faster if he just hailed a cab now and called in another prescription to a chemist closer to home. And that's exactly what he would do, if he could just shake this feeling that he made a terrible mistake in leaving Sherlock alone. Mary told him not to rush home, and he should have taken her up on it. She's miserably sick, but she isn't the one who stood toe to toe with a serial killer a few hours ago and all but called the man out. That was Sherlock.

What if Ellis slips out of his flat and manages to evade the surveillance team? Greg seemed to have the same concern going by what he said when they were leaving. 'Keep your guard up, just in case.' But Sherlock won't do that because he thinks he's fucking indestructible. He won't watch his own back because that's John's job. But John isn't there to do it.

He should call Mary and tell her what's going on. That he needs to stay with Sherlock until they get the list of victims in the morning. It won't take Sherlock long to find what he's looking for, John is certain of that. They might not be able to charge Ellis immediately, but it will give Greg enough leverage to bring him in for questioning. Once Ellis realizes that the evidence has been found, he'll know he can no longer save himself by eliminating Sherlock, and the threat will be gone. 

Which is all well and good, except for the fact that John knows the reaction he'll get from Sherlock if he abandons his ailing fiancé to rush back to Baker Street based on nothing but a gut feeling. It would make no sense to Sherlock that this overprotectiveness has an identifiable cause. That John is still trying to wrap his head around the fact that the man he mourned for two years is back among the living, and there's still some part of John that expects him to vanish like a ghost at cockcrow the minute he turns his back. 

"Oi. Ya wanna move it, mate?" It's the man behind him, and his tone suggests this isn't the first time he's tried to get John's attention.

"What?" John looks up to find that the queue has shortened by at least three people, leaving a large gap in front of him. "Oh, sorry."

Twenty minutes later, he finally reaches the front of the queue, only to find that the chemist has put up the wrong prescription. It only takes a few minutes to sort out, but it's enough to give his anxiety a push that it didn't need. He moves to the queue to pay, and then remembers that he wanted to pick up some Dioralyte to keep Mary hydrated, and has to surrender his spot in the queue to go get it. 

By the time he walks out to hail a cab, he's running on pure adrenaline. It must show, because the cabbie gives him one glance and wisely dispenses with any small talk. Five minutes into the drive home, John is fighting an urge to turn the bloody cab around and prove to himself that Sherlock is fine. The sensible thing to do is call him and just tune out the inevitable sarcasm. He pulls out his phone.

"Yes, John." He's not in the flat. John can hear traffic sounds, and Sherlock is breathing like a man who has been walking at a brisk pace for some minutes.

"Where the hell are you?" It's a lot closer to a shout than he intended.

Sherlock chuckles in his ear. "What did you do, install a trip wire on the front door when I wasn't looking? I'm going to meet Daniel Manning in Regent's Park."

"What? Why?" Short and sharp. His command voice. The cabbie give him a wary look in the mirror, and John signals him to pull over and stop.

"He called a few minutes ago. He said he's found something that he can't talk about over the phone."

"Did you tell him we've already found what we were looking for? Why can't this wait until morning?"

"I didn't tell him anything. I don't want to prejudice whatever he has to say. He's already convinced that his life is in danger, which I strongly suspect is the product of a vivid imagination inspired by his collection of crime novels. He says it can't wait until morning."

"I don't like this."

"Which is why I didn't call you."

John takes a deep breath. "Wait for me. I'm coming with you."

"Don't be an idiot. You're nearly home."

"No, I'm not. It took a long time at the chemist's. I'm barely ten minutes away from you." _Less, if his driver can be persuaded to overlook a few traffic laws._

"I will be fine, John. Go home."

"Where are you meeting him? Specifically."

Sherlock exhales exasperatedly into the phone. "Across the bridge near the entrance. I'm almost there. Go home, John." He ends the call.

John pulls out his wallet and hands the driver a twenty pound note. "Turn around. Regent's Park. Break laws." Sherlock is going to think John has lost his mind, and John plans to spend the next ten minutes praying that Sherlock is right.

* * *

Sherlock puts the phone back in his pocket as he crosses Outer Circle and enters the park. The bridge is a dozen yards to the right, and Manning is supposed to be on a park bench at the opposite end of it, but Sherlock doesn't see anyone at all. It's well after sunset, and the temperature has dropped as the wind rose. Not exactly a night for a leisurely stroll in the park, but Manning had insisted. He said meeting in an open area outdoors was the only way to avoid electronic eavesdropping, an irrational bit of melodrama which further confirms Sherlock's belief that Manning has read too many spy novels.

As he crosses the bridge, a gust of icy wind makes him pull his collar closer to his throat. He can see that the park bench is empty, but it's impossible to see down the path to the right because of the shrubbery lining both sides. There's no one coming from the left. 

When he reaches the opposite side, he stops as soon as he can see past the shrubs. The path is empty all the way to the point where it curves away from the water. Manning had said he was only a few minutes away when he called. So, where is he?

Minutes tick by. Just as he begins to consider the possibility that John may have had a point, he sees movement midway down the path. A figure emerges from the shadows and starts walking toward him. When he's near enough for Sherlock to verify that it's Manning, he steps into the center of the path to wait for him. Manning is carrying a file folder, glancing all around as he comes closer.

"Mr. Holmes?" His voice is even shakier than it was on the phone. 

"Sherlock," he responds, setting the tone to elicit trust.

Manning stops in front of him, alternately glancing back over his shoulder and looking down the path behind Sherlock. "Can we sit down?"

They go to the bench, and Manning sits uncomfortably close, hunkered down like a frightened child.

"What did you want to tell me?"

Manning has the folder in his lap with his right hand spread protectively on top. "I don't want you to think I had anything to do with it. I--I didn't have a clue until an hour ago."

"A clue about what?"

"You were right," Manning says softly, looking down at the folder.

Apparently, it's going to be like pulling teeth. "Right about what?"

"You came to see me because you thought the database had been hacked." 

Manning goes silent again, and Sherlock elects to wait him out. A minute passes. 

"I put a lot of time into making it as secure as anything out there. No one outside Scotland Yard is even supposed to know the database exists. I never thought this could happen." He sighs heavily, shaking his head. "They'll never believe me."

"You'll have to be a bit more specific, if you want my help. What are you afraid of?"

"Not what. Who." He looks up at Sherlock, openly studying his face. "You already know, don't you? Isn't that what you do? See what no one else can? What do you see when you look at me?"

"Despite what you may have heard, I don't read minds. Let's start with the folder. What's in it?"

Manning scoots away a bit so he can face him. "What were you and Dr. Watson looking for when you came to see me?"

Sherlock catches a very subtle change in Manning's tone, and angles his body to face him more directly. "What's in the folder, Daniel?"

Manning closes his eyes, and Sherlock reaches for the folder, intending to look for himself.

Manning's whole body jerks as Sherlock's hand touches the folder, and his left hand flies up from underneath, flipping the folder from his lap and onto the ground at their feet. Manning quickly bends forward at the waist to grab it. 

At the same time, Sherlock shifts his foot to trap the folder so the wind doesn't blow it out of reach. It takes less than a second for his brain to register the sharp pain in his left calf as a needle jab.

Manning springs up from the bench and takes a step backward. 

"Wha--" is all Sherlock can get out as the drug seems to hit everywhere at once. The smattering of brain cells that aren't already blazing with useless panic begin to shout at him in John's voice as he topples from the bench while his failing lungs pull frantically for a breath that he knows is going to be his last.

* * *

The cabbie, as it turns out, is quite willing to place profit above safe motoring. He pulls the cab up at the entrance to Regent's Park in just under eight minutes. His bonus includes the sandwich and soup that John abandons on the seat.

John gets out as soon as the cab stops rolling and breaks into a run, then forces himself to pause behind a clump of shrubbery just short of the bridge to assess the situation. If Sherlock and Manning are really in no danger, and John comes running up on them, Manning might panic and flee his best hope of staying alive.

John takes a deep breath and pokes his head out to look across the water. It takes his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the darkness on the far bank, but only an instant more to spot the figure lying on the path to the left of the bridge. He breaks into a run, pulling out his phone and cursing the wasted seconds.

The 999 operator answers before he reaches the halfway point, and he can already see that it's Sherlock on the ground as he fires the words into the phone-- ambulance, police, attempted murder (attempted, please God)-- and then drops it on the ground as he sinks to his knees next to Sherlock's motionless form.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?" His eyes are open, staring at nothing. Wide open. "Sherlock!" Carotid pulse rapid and bounding. No respiration. 

No respiration.

The shock of recognition takes his own breath for an instant before reflex takes over. He gives Sherlock six full breaths, talking to him in the seconds between, desperate to let him know he's not alone.

"Sherlock, you know what this is." _Breath. Breath._ "You'll be okay." _Breath._ "Just hold on."

He can't imagine what this must be like for him. 

What it's like for John is a nightmare of deja vu. All that's missing is blood splashed pavement and hands that keep trying to pull him away--

Check the carotid. Back to the breaths. No more talking now because he can't breathe for them both and talk in between if he wants to stay conscious himself. He's already getting light headed but that's from shock too and no food and the way this looks so much like what it can't be because Sherlock won't be the only casualty if it is--

He can hear the 999 operator's tinny voice coming out of his phone somewhere on the ground nearby but he doesn't have the air to talk to her either.

Where the hell is the ambulance? It feels like he's been at this for hours but knows it can't be more than a few minutes no matter how hard it's getting to be just to stay upright and blow hard enough to make Sherlock's chest rise and keep his heart beating and the lights on in that brain--

Running footsteps from behind. Medics? Hope flares, and he starts to turn-- Full body slam and he rolls with it, over Sherlock and onto the path.

Gets to his feet as his attacker does the same and he sees a flash of something in the hand coming toward him. Knocks it away. Too small for a knife. It skitters across the path.

He ducks a fist thrown clumsily at his head and returns the favor. Connects hard and keeps at it because he has got to end this threat and get back to Sherlock before it's too--

The attacker drops to the ground, and John straddles him long enough to make sure he's out. Fucking _Manning._

Back to Sherlock, facing Manning while he gives Sherlock four, five, six full breaths, then checks his pulse and panics for a moment until he finds it. 

Sirens in the distance.

_Sherlock, don't you dare do this, don't you fucking dare._

He can see the flashing emergency lights now, a lot of them. Men running toward them across the bridge.

His knuckles are wet with blood, and he hopes it's Manning's. Hopes he killed the bastard.

Two medics reach them, and the rattling wheels of the gurney send him rocketing back to Bart's all over again--

"Succinylcholine injection," he gasps the words. "Need to bag him."

"Got it," one of them says and the mask is placed over Sherlock's mouth and nose. John sags back on his heels and tried to get his own breathing under control. 

More running footsteps. Police, uniforms and a detective coming across the bridge.

The medics lift Sherlock to the gurney and strap him in while it's in motion, racing for the ambulance with one medic pulling and the other pushing while he works the bag with one hand-- 

John staggers to his feet and runs after them.

"He should be coming around," he tells the medic who is bagging Sherlock in the back of the careening ambulance two minutes later.

"How long was he down?"

He can't think. Twenty minutes since they talked on the phone? How long before Manning hit him with the drug? How long before he found him? 

"I don't know."

"Must have been a major overdose."

"No, it's not an overdose. It was sux." And then he realizes that's not what the medic meant. "I don't know how much he was given."

Sherlock is motionless. Staring. Too long. It's been too long.

The ambulance slows down. Stops. The rear doors open, and John scoots back against the side wall of the van to get out of the way while they pull out the gurney, the medic right behind them and John right behind the medic. 

Through the double doors and into the Resuscitation room. Too busy to stop him from following them in, as if they could.

He leans against the wall next to the door and watches a scene straight out of his worst nightmare. 

The heart monitor is beeping erratically. PVCs. Runs of three and four. Tachycardia. Bradycardia. Too fast, then too slow. This shouldn't be happening. 

Hypoxia. Cerebral injury. 

Brain death.

_Come on, Sherlock. Come on. Come on._

They've been at for eighteen minutes. He should be conscious. Moving. Breathing. The drug can't be the problem now. Not after eighteen fucking minutes.

Out of nowhere, a young woman in blue scrubs is standing in his line of sight, blocking his view of Sherlock.

"Sir, you have to leave the room."

"No." He starts to step around her, and a tall, broad man joins her. "You have to leave, sir."

He hears another run of PVCs and starts to push past them.

The man takes his arm and tugs him away from the wall. "Come with me, please."

John doesn't realize that the wall was the only thing keeping him upright until his knees abruptly unlock, and the man's grip tightens. 

John finds himself being steered through the double doors and back into the waiting room. The man backs him up to a chair. Sits him down, and squats in front of him. "Someone will come out to talk with you as soon as we know what we're dealing with. Is there someone I can call for you?"

John leans to the side so he can see the doors he just came through. "No."

The man straightens and goes back into the room. The doors close.

"John?"

Greg Lestrade comes through the ambulance entrance and takes a sharp left toward him. He follows John's gaze toward the double doors, then squats in front of him in the same pose as the man who put him in this chair.

"John, how is he?"

"I don't know."

There must be something in his voice that precludes any more questions. Greg takes the chair next to him. "Manning's in custody."

John nods. Not dead. Too bad. He looks down at his hands and finds split knuckles on his right hand that are oozing blood. His left is undamaged, but also bloody. Good.

He can feel Greg's restraint. There are questions that will need to be answered, but not now. Not until he can talk to Sherlock. Not until then.

He could have prevented this. After all this time, he fucking knows better than to question his own instincts. The time he wasted trying to talk himself out of acting on them put Sherlock where he is right now. The minutes it took to find him could well have destroyed his mind. Even the best case scenario with a brain injury would be catastrophic to him. Cognitive impairment. Aphasia. Blindness. Paralysis. 

Sherlock would prefer death.

Just thinking the word makes it hard to breathe.

Greg tenses beside him. "John."

He realizes he has his eyes closed, and opens them to find a woman in a white lab coat standing in front of him. Greg's hand is on his arm.

"Are you waiting for word on the man who was just brought in?" She nods toward the door where Sherlock is being treated.

John gets to his feet. "His name is Sherlock Holmes. How is he?"

Greg is standing next to him, shoulder to shoulder.

"He's breathing on his own, but he's still unresponsive. I'm told that someone tried to kill him with a dose of succinylcholine."

"Yes."

"That would explain his condition on arrival, but it doesn't account for his current status. Were you the one who found him?"

"Yes."

"Do you know how long he was deprived of oxygen?"

"No."

She frowns. "I see. I've ordered a neurological assessment, but I can already say with some certainty that there is more going on here than the aftermath of an unsupported dose of succinylcholine. His cardiac irritability suggests cocaine, but there are also indications of heroin or morphine. We'll have his lab results shortly, and that should sort out the combination."

Manning must have been trying to make it look like a self-administered drugs overdose. Given Sherlock's history, it might have worked. "Can I see him?" When she doesn't answer immediately, he squares his shoulders. "I'm his doctor." 

"His _doctor_?"

"Yes. John Watson. I'm a GP with admitting privileges at this hospital, and I would like to see my patient now."

She studies him for a moment. "Very well. Come with me," she says unnecessarily since he's already ahead of her, pushing through the doors.

He's standing next to the bed with both hands gripping the safety rail when she catches up to him. 

"Dr. Watson, is there anything in his medical history that might account for the symptoms we're seeing? For example, could he have been under the influence of drugs before he was injected with the succinylcholine?"

John turns to face her. "I'm sure you can tell that the needle marks are old. He has used heroin and cocaine, but not for years."

She purses her lips. "I'm sure you're aware that addicts can be quite creative in choosing injection sites to hide--"

"He's not using drugs. If there's anything other than sux in his system, he didn't put it there." He's angry, and not trying to hide it.

Her posture stiffens. "I wasn't questioning your abilities. It's not always easy to see these things, and--"

"Please let me know when the neurologist arrives." He turns his attention to Sherlock. The pause lengthens into an awkward silence.

"I will note his chart accordingly." She leaves the room.

"I seem to have pissed off your doctor. Just filling in for you until you can speak for yourself." He knows his feeble attempt at humor is falling on deaf ears, but it felt good for a moment.

Sherlock's eyes are closed, and his breathing is back to normal. Unfortunately, it's the only thing that is.

His heart rate is still not steady. John reads the monitor: Pulse 60...72... 103. Another run of PVCs, three of them, happen while John watches the ECG readout. 

And of course there's the fact that he's essentially in a coma. The possibility that his brain has been irreversibly damaged increases with every minute that he remains in this state.

There's a scrape on his right cheekbone, and it's starting to darken into a bruise. John touches it gently with two fingers, then opens his hand and cups his face. It's cool in the room, and Sherlock's skin feels clammy. His hair is sticking to his forehead, and John gently brushes it back with a hand that's not quite steady.

"Sherlock, open your eyes." He carefully turns Sherlock's head to face him. "It's John. I need you to look at me." He pinches a good inch of Sherlock's trapezius muscle between his right index finger and thumb and twists it hard enough to make himself wince in sympathy. No response.

Suddenly the full weight of what's happened-- and what may lie ahead-- hits him hard, and he really needs to sit down. Without moving his hand from Sherlock's shoulder, he glances about in search of a chair, and spots one in the corner. He lets go of his friend long enough to go get it.

The bed is cranked up to its full height, and sitting down puts him at eye level with the raised railing. Sherlock's left hand is lying next to his body on top of the blanket, and John wraps both of his around it.

If they try to throw him out again, it's going to take more than one brawny orderly to do it.

* * *

End of chapter six


	7. Futility personified

* * * * 

**A/N- Thanks are not nearly enough, but I offer them anyway. Jolie Black (Patience Personified), 7PercentSolution, Anyawen, and the anonymous medical beta, you are without equals. - GW**

* * * *  
Battlefield medicine is a proving ground like no other. No matter how prepared you think you are, the reality dwarfs everything you've been told to expect, and anything you could have imagined. It isn't just the fact that you're working literally under fire, or that you could be killed or maimed, just like your patients, at any moment. It's more than the noise, and the screaming, and the devastation that explosives and bullets inflict on human flesh. It's the realization that no matter what you do, tomorrow will be a repeat of today. The futility is the greatest shock of all, and it can be paralyzing. John never let it dim his determination to save every life, no matter the odds. He quickly discovered that the more desperate the situation, the sharper his instincts became. His colleagues agreed. Even if it looked like your number was up, John Watson would change the game if anyone could.

They should see him now. Futility personified.

At every turn, he has been one beat too late. One step too slow. It's not that his fabled instincts failed him, or that he doubted what they were trying to tell him. He did something that would have gotten him killed on the battlefield, and could have the same result for Sherlock. He hesitated. 

The irony isn't lost on him. He waited too long to act, and now waiting is all he can do. 

Sherlock is breathing on his own, and in no immediate danger. The arrhythmia bears watching, but has shown no indication of worsening. When his lab results come back, they expect to find morphine and cocaine in addition to the succinylcholine. The combination would explain a lot of what they're seeing, but not all of it. This persistent unresponsiveness is not right. The succinylcholine has dissipated as evidenced by the fact that he's breathing again. Even a heavy dose of morphine shouldn't have him in this state. Cocaine would account for the arrhythmia, but it would also counteract the sedative effects. 

But that assumes there was something more than succinylcholine in the injection. There is another explanation that no one but him seems ready to consider, and it's just as likely as the drugs combination. For all the times he's sagely advised others not to anticipate the worst, he can't seem to convince himself to do anything but. No matter how unlikely the worst case scenario might be, images of what life would be like for Sherlock with that incredible brain irretrievably ruined keep running though his mind in an endless loop.

He knows what Sherlock would say. It's a waste of energy and brain power to visualize a worst case scenario against which there is no recourse. The time to mitigate the damage has passed. Wallowing in guilt, real or imagined, is pointless and self-defeating.

All true. With much softer words, he's said the same thing himself to the terrified families of patients in his care, and saw the same doubt in their eyes. He had always thought he understood what they were feeling. But being told that all you can do is wait is torture, no matter how true and well-intentioned the words. He will never say them again.

A nurse has been in to check on Sherlock twice since the doctor let John come in to sit with him forty minutes ago. Both times were in response to the alarm that went off when his heart slipped into another bothersome spurt of arrhythmia. Both times, it settled down a few seconds after she came into the room. She's just come in for the third time. She watches the monitor for a moment, two fingers pressed to Sherlock's carotid. This time, she leans down to talk to him, too. "I think you're just doing this to get my attention. You'll get farther if you just open those pretty blue eyes and ask me for a date." She straightens up and winks at John, then leaves them to go on with whatever she was doing when Sherlock interrupted her. 

He hears the door open behind him again a moment later and turns to look, thinking she's come back for something, but it's not her. "Greg. I didn't know you were still here." 

The DI steps just far enough into the room to let the door close behind him. "I just got back, actually. When you came in here with the doctor, I went on to the crime scene. That's where I was headed earlier when they called to tell me you'd already left in the ambulance." He walks to the foot of the bed and watches Sherlock for a moment. "How is he?"

"Stubbornly resisting all attempts to wake him up."

Greg chuckles softly. "He's probably not unconscious at all. Just holed up in that Mind Palace of his until he comes up with a way to make this look like he wasn't wrong about Ellis."

"He wasn't wrong."

Greg turns to him with a frown. "Of course he was. What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that Ellis all but confessed when we talked to him this afternoon. It looks like Manning may have been working with him, but Ellis is the killer."

Greg looks down for a moment. "He's almost never wrong, John, but it does happen. And you have to admit that he's been all over the map on this from the start. Hell, he went back and forth a dozen times on whether there even was a case to investigate. First the drug was the key, and then it wasn't. The Internet was a link, and he discarded that. There was no suspect, and then ten minutes after you hear Ellis' name for the first time, he's suddenly the killer." He glances at Sherlock, and lowers his voice. "He hasn't been himself since he came back. This is the first case you two have worked in a long time. I can't be the only one who's noticed a difference."

"He hasn't changed, but everything he came back to has."

Greg meets his gaze and holds it. "The doctor said she thinks there could be morphine and cocaine in his system, too." 

"He's not using drugs, Greg."

"I didn't say he was."

"You're as transparent as a pane of glass. And you're not the first person who's wondered about that tonight. Armstrong saw the needle tracks."

As if on cue, the doctor comes through the doors. "Dr. Watson, I've got the lab results." 

John stands up as Dr. Armstrong crosses to the bed and leans down with a penlight to check Sherlock's eyes.

"The succinylcholine is confirmed, and the morphine." She lifts one eyelid and shines the light into it. "But it's the ke--"

Sherlock's eyes snap open, and he sucks in a huge breath. Armstrong pulls back in surprise, and John moves in immediately.

"Sherlock, it's John. Look at--"

His response is explosive. Sherlock is instantly in motion. Flailing and kicking, fists blindly striking out and connecting hard. 

Greg moves in to grab Sherlock's shoulders, which puts his face squarely in the way of a blindly thrown punch that knocks him back a step. John ducks under the flying fists to hold Sherlock down, but it only seems to accelerate whatever is going on with him. He starts thrashing so violently that, for an instant, John thinks it might be a seizure, but the actions are too deliberate.

Armstrong presses the intercom and calls for assistance and a dose of haloperidol, then moves to the end of the bed to help. A moment later, two orderlies come through the doors, one of them the man who escorted John from this room earlier. John is still trying to talk to Sherlock, shouting his name, ordering him to stop. There is absolutely no response, and the struggle continues to escalate. Even with five people holding on to him, Sherlock is by no means under control.

A woman hurries into the room and hands the sedative to Armstrong who quickly injects it into the IV port.

Sherlock's struggles weaken at once, and his eyes glaze over. A few seconds later, he goes limp, and his eyes close.

The tableau holds for a few seconds more before everyone lets go, and the room takes a collective breath.

John wraps both hands around the railing and bows his head, stunned by what he just witnessed. 

"What the hell just happened?" Greg is rubbing gingerly at the reddening spot where Sherlock's fist connected with his jaw.

"That was an unfortunate demonstration of what I was about to tell you," Armstrong says to John. "The third drug in the injection wasn't cocaine. It was ketamine. A significant amount of it."

John quickly runs the differential in his head. Ketamine psychosis from a high dosage compared to hypoxic brain injury. The symptoms would be similar, but the prognosis would be devastatingly different. Ketamine psychosis is temporary, but damage to his brain from oxygen deprivation--

Armstrong has returned to Sherlock's side to continue assessing his condition. "He's in no immediate danger. His pressure is higher than I'd like, and the arrhythmia is still present, but I expect both to resolve when he's worked the rest of the drugs out of his system. The haloperidol will be the last, I'm afraid. I really wish he hadn't made that necessary. It's going to require careful monitoring, and will delay his recovery by hours."

"How many hours?" John asks, trying to recall the statistics for himself and coming up blank.

"It's difficult to predict. We're dealing with a combination of factors."

Hypoxemia, for example, John's mind helpfully supplies. "An educated guess, then?"

She tilts her head, considering. "Ketamine is normally metabolized in an hour give or take. The sedation will increase that. Six?"

Greg finally finds his normal voice. "So, he's on a bad trip, and he just made you extend it."

"Essentially, yes." She turns to John and nods at his hands on the railing. "You should let me have someone take a look at that."

John looks down at his knuckles which are bleeding again. He lets go of the rail, and drops them to his sides.

"I'll send someone in with antiseptic to clean that up. After that, you may as well go home. There's nothing to do now but wait until he wakes up."

"I'll stay with him." 

She looks as if she's about to object for a moment. "Very well. I'll start the paperwork to have him admitted." 

Greg waits until she leaves. "Ketamine is nasty stuff, but it's not the worst thing Manning could have given him, I guess. At least we know he'll come out of it now."

"Ketamine could explain his condition, or it could be masking the real problem."

Greg tenses visibly. "What problem?"

"The combativeness and confusion could be from the ketamine, or they could be the result of brain injury. The symptoms are similar." 

"Christ." 

"It only takes four minutes without oxygen for the brain to start dying. Depending on how long he was down, he could come out of it with no damage at all, or he could have a whole array of issues. Varying degrees of memory loss. Personality changes. Cognitive impairment. We won't know if I found him in time until he actually wakes up." In the struggle to detach himself from who he's talking about, he forgets who he's talking to.

Greg was shocked before, but he looks gutted now. "Jesus," he whispers. "Jesus, John. No wonder you look like... " 

"Sorry. I guess I could have said that better."

Greg accepts his apology with a tight nod. "Why didn't you tell me this before?"

"It may not be like that at all. I'm just being... Look, forget what I said. The doctor doesn't seem to think it's nearly as gloomy as I just made it sound." He takes a shaky breath. "I just can't stop thinking that if I'd gotten to him just a couple of minutes faster..." His gaze is fixed grimly on Sherlock's still face.

Greg goes to the other side of the bed and lays his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. When he looks across at John, his eyes narrow. "Don't do that. If this is anyone's fault, it's mine for not putting a tail on Sherlock as well as Ellis. We may have been looking at the wrong killer, but we sure as hell knew his target."

"There's plenty of blame to go around," John says quietly. He looks up. "Do you know where Ellis is now?"

"In his flat. My phone would be going off if he wasn't."

John almost smiles. "You said he isn't the killer, but you haven't pulled the surveillance."

"He's got me trained pretty well, hasn't he." His expression is unabashedly fond as he looks down at Sherlock for a long moment, then straightens up and squares his shoulders. "I can come back later tonight, but I have to get Manning processed, as soon as they finish patching him up."

It takes John a moment to put that together. "He's here?"

"Looks like you broke his jaw. And his nose. He's down the hall."

"I want to talk to him." 

"Even if I believed that's all you want to do to him, you know I can't allow it. Hell, I can't even talk to him. He was cautioned when he was arrested, and he asked for a lawyer. Nobody can to talk to him."

"Nobody with the police can talk to him. I'm not with the police."

Greg is shaking his head. "Not a chance. You're a witness, for one thing. And his lawyer could argue that you work with the police, which you do. I'm not jeopardizing this case just to give you another crack at him. I need him in one piece for his arraignment." He nods at Sherlock. "And you have more important things to do."

The door opens and a young man in scrubs comes in carrying a metal tray covered with a white cloth. "Dr. Armstrong sent me to treat your hand."

Greg crosses his arms. "Let him bandage those knuckles before you think about using them again. I'll go remove temptation from your path." He turns to leave, then pauses at the door. "Call me if anything changes." He glances back at Sherlock, then nods to John and walks out of the room.

The nurse sets about tending to John's knuckles with gentle efficiency. 

"Flex your fingers for me."

"Nothing's broken."

The nurse chuckles. "I wouldn't be so sure. I just came from treating your sparring partner. Now flex, please."

John complies. "Has he said anything about our... sparring match?" He asks it casually enough, but the nurse's glance up from his work is brief and dubious. 

"Friend of yours?"

John's smile is tight. "Not exactly."

"Didn't think so." He wraps two knuckles with plasters and starts packing up his equipment. "Try to keep your hands dry. Change the dressing if it gets wet." He smiles. "You're a doctor. You know the drill." He gets up to leave, then pauses to glance at Sherlock. "He's your friend."

"Yes." 

"I know it's hard, but you need to focus on a good outcome. He'll pick up on it, even out cold like he is." He turns to leave, and makes it almost to the door before John manages to thank him.

*** 

When they come to move Sherlock to his room, John steps outside to call Mary. And Mycroft. He had sent Mary a text an hour ago, but all he'd said was that he'd been delayed and would call her when he could. He was hoping to postpone his call to Mycroft until there was something definitive to tell him, but now it looks like it will be morning before that happens. The longer he waits, the harder it's going to be.

Mary is sleepy, and then instantly alert when he tells her where they are and what the delay was all about. She won't hear of him coming home, which he expected. And she's as worried about him as she is about Sherlock, which he didn't expect, but understands. She knows as well as he does what this could mean. For all of them. 

Mycroft answers with his customary bland indifference. "Yes, John. What is Sherlock up to this time?"

He listens without interrupting until John reaches the end of his narrative of what happened in Regent's Park. 

"What is the prognosis?"

"His doctor expects him to regain consciousness in a few hours. We will know more when he can talk to us."

"You said he is in no immediate danger."

"Yes."

Mycroft exhales in a huff. "Your professional detachment needs work, Dr. Watson. What are you not telling me?"

"I don't know how long he was without oxygen. There could be some level of impairment. We won't know until he wakes up."

"What kind of impairment?"

John knows better than to withhold or embellish the facts. He gives Mycroft the unbuffered truth. There is a long pause when he finishes.

"Very well. Call me the moment you know." Mycroft ends the call.

John blows out a long breath, turns off his phone, and goes back inside.

When he comes off the lift on Sherlock's floor, he sees the bustle of activity down the hall and his heart drops. Dr. Armstrong comes out of the room followed by two nurses as he breaks into a trot. She holds up a placating hand as he reaches her. "He's' fine. He was tachycardic for a few minutes, but it resolved on its own. It's not unexpected."

"The ketamine shouldn't still be doing this." 

"It's a bit unusual, but as I said. Not entirely unexpected under the circumstances." She touches John's arm lightly. "I'll be here until seven a.m., and I expect him to be awake before I leave. You need to be positive."

"Thank you." He appreciates her kindness, but he's irritated in equal parts at being talked to like a civilian, and at seemingly being unable to avoid acting like one. He walks past her and pulls up a chair next to the bed, but he's not ready to sit quite yet.

Sherlock has a red mark where they've been pressing the orbital socket of his left eye, testing for pain response. John touches it gently, then rests his palm on his forehead. He feels warmer now, and the clamminess is gone.

"Greg thinks you're wrong about Ellis. I know you're right, but I can't prove it without you."

The number of things he can't do - doesn't want to do- without Sherlock is almost back to where it was two years ago. How Sherlock feels about having him around again, or about working together, or anything at all, remains as murky as ever. It's that uncertainty that made John hesitate tonight. Unsure how far to push. An outsider without the right to do anything but suggest. For Sherlock's sake, as well as his own, that has to change.

He adjusts the chair so he can hold Sherlock's hand, and settles back to wait.

The hallway wall is entirely glass, covered by a curtain that is pulled half closed. The door is shut, but the nurses' station is right outside, and it doesn't take long for the traffic back and forth to start wearing on John's nerves. He stews in silence for most of an hour before he gets up and pulls the curtain the rest of the way shut. It will block the view, if not the noise. When he returns to his seat and takes Sherlock's hand again, it moves ever so slightly, and John is instantly back on his feet, leaning in close. 

"Sherlock, it's John. Open your eyes." He checks the monitor, but there's no change in heart rate or breathing. Reflex, then. He presses the same spot they've been using to test, then presses harder. 

Sherlock turns his head just slightly, but it's the first real response they've gotten out of him. "Sherlock, look at me." A minute passes. Two. "I know you love to make an entrance, but you're really dragging this out. Any time you're ready, but soon would be nice." He watches for a moment, then sits down and tries to get comfortable. It's going to be a long night.

Over the next two hours, Sherlock's heart settles into a consistent rhythm, and his blood pressure returns to normal. As a result, the frequency of visits by the nursing staff drops to every thirty minutes, and John is surprised to find that he actually misses the interruptions. Long stretches of solitude give him too much time to think, so when the door opens behind him, he turns to welcome the few moments of distraction. But instead of Sherlock's nurse, he finds a rumpled Detective Inspector.

"Greg, you didn't have to come back." He's been sitting in the same position too long, and his back cracks audibly when he turns to look up.

"I told you I was going to." He hesitates. "I'm, uh, thinking it's time to bring Ellis in for a little chat."

"What changed?"

"Manning got chatty when we were booking him. His lawyer tried to shut him up, and Manning fired him on the spot. He's claiming he's our vigilante. All by himself."

"What?" It comes out a lot louder than he intended. He glances at Sherlock and lowers his voice. "He confessed to killing Hartman?"

"Yeah, and all the rest. He didn't give any names." Greg smiles. "He wants to talk to you and Sherlock. Nobody else."

John shakes his head. "That's not possible. He's what? Twenty-five? He would have been seventeen years old when--"

"I was right."

The familiar deep voice, blurred with sleep, triggers a flood of relief that makes John glad he's sitting down. Since his own voice seems temporarily absent, he settles for squeezing Sherlock's hand. 

Greg seems to be holding his breath, the question clear in the way he's trying to catch John's eye. 

Sherlock opens his eyes, and turns his head toward John. "It's not Manning..." He frowns as his voice fades out.

"I know. Welcome back." He meets Greg's worried gaze, and smiles.

Greg exhales, looks away for a beat. When he turns back to Sherlock, he's smiling. "You've got a long way to go before you sell me on that one, especially since you seem to be living proof to the contrary." 

John watches Sherlock, waiting for the return fire Greg's comment will draw, but Sherlock seems to be lost in thought. "You're not gonna let him get away with that, are you?" Sherlock's eyes drift shut. John gives the long fingers another squeeze. "Hey, don't go back to sleep yet." 

Greg's smile falters. "Is he okay?"

"He's fine. Sherlock? Come on. Tell Greg why it's not Manning."

When Sherlock opens his eyes this time, he looks slightly annoyed. It's a very familiar expression. "You know I hate repeating myself." The wearily imperious tone is there, but he can't quite manage the laser gaze that usually accompanies it.

John and Greg exchange a look that's both bemused and filled with relief. Greg crosses his arms and looks as stern as his smiling eyes allow. "When you're back on your feet, I expect an explanation for why you agreed to meet him in the park without backup."

"He's a witness, not a--"

Greg holds up a hand. "Not a suspect. Yeah, I know that's what you thought. But it didn't turn out that way."

Sherlock frowns, and closes his eyes. "He's not the killer." His voice is softer than it was a moment ago.

"You need to spend a few more hours sleeping this off before we can get back to it. Manning wants to talk to us."

Sherlock opens his eyes long enough to predict, "About Ellis." He settles back into the pillow, and the eyes drift shut again. A moment later, his breathing slows and deepens. 

"He's asleep," John says softly. He looks up at Greg. "You should go get some sleep yourself. You look like hell."

Greg smiles. "Take a look in the mirror. It's been a rough night." He comes around to the opposite side of the bed and looks down at Sherlock for a long moment. "I'm really getting too old for this," he tells the sleeping man, then looks across at John. "He's okay now."

It's not a question, but John answers it anyway. "He's okay, Greg. Go home."

Greg nods and walks around the bed, heading for the door. He pauses to squeeze John's shoulder, and the gesture puts a lump in John's throat that takes a long time to fade.

* * *  
End of Chapter 7


	8. Collateral Damage

* * * * *  
**A/N- Jolie Black and 7PercentSolution deserve hazardous duty pay for this one. Thanks aren't enough, but I'll think of something appropriate. Promise.**  
* * * * *

John looks like he's running on fumes. Sherlock seems to be at the opposite end of the spectrum, almost vibrating with energy that is currently focused directly on Greg.

"You said you were going to bring Ellis in for an interview. Is he here?"

"Good afternoon to you, too. It's nice to see that you're back to your usual unassuming self." 

John drops into his chair in front of Greg's desk and looks up at Sherlock who is standing behind the other one, fingers tapping impatiently on the back of it. "Sit down, Sherlock." 

Sherlock's focus on Greg sharpens. "You've changed your mind. Why?"

Greg crosses his arms and waits until Sherlock takes the hint and sits. "Manning wrote out a detailed confession to Hartman's murder. He's also claiming to have killed what sounds like everyone you're attributing to Ellis, although he's withholding the names until he talks to you. He says you're the only one he'll give the details to."

Sherlock waves a dismissive hand. "Talking to Manning is a waste of time. He was willing to kill me to shield Ellis. He's not going to give us anything that would incriminate him."

John turns in his chair to look at Sherlock. "But you said Ellis was what Manning wanted to talk to us about. It was practically the first thing you said when you woke up in the hospital."

"No, what I said was 'About Ellis', which summarizes Manning's guiding principle. It's all been about Ellis. Manning is a psychopath. When he discovered what Ellis has been doing, he must have thought he'd found a kindred spirit. He's been watching and admiring his work all along, waiting for an opportunity to prove himself. He may have killed Hartman, but I don't believe he killed the others. And neither do you."

"You're right. I don't. But then, I never expected that he'd try to kill you, either, so maybe we're wrong about how long he's been at this. How can we be sure we're not wrong about Ellis, too?"

"We're not wrong." Their gazes lock and hold.

Greg sees his opening. "Okay, then let me put Manning in an interrogation room and we'll see what he has to say." He holds up a hand when Sherlock starts to protest. "That's the only way this is going to go. Take it or leave it. Ellis doesn't come into it until we talk to Manning."

Sherlock huffs an exasperated sigh. "It's a waste of time, but explaining why will take longer than humoring you." He stands up and gestures grandly for Greg to lead the way.

The interrogation rooms are on the ground floor in the same wing with the holding cells. Greg stops to speak with the custody sergeant, then ushers Sherlock and John through the first door on the right past the desk. It's the observation room adjacent to the interrogation room where they'll be talking to Manning. The adjoining wall includes a large window of one-way glass that will allow Greg to watch and listen to what goes on in the interrogation. From his vantage point, he'll be looking at Manning's face, and at the backs of Sherlock and John. 

A moment later, the interrogation room door opens, and an officer comes in with Daniel Manning. He sits Manning down in the chair facing the window and cuffs him to a metal ring mounted in the center of the table. 

Manning's voice sounds tinny through the speaker. "I'd like some coffee," he tells the officer pleasantly. Then he looks at the window and smiles as if he can see them.

"Smug little bastard is enjoying the hell out of this," Greg says, frowning at the window. "Guys he's worked with for years having to handle him like a criminal, and he doesn't miss an opportunity to rub their noses in it."

The officer glances awkwardly at the window, then leaves the room without responding to Manning.

Manning has two impressively black eyes, and the left one is swollen shut. His nose is obviously broken, and the left side of his jaw is swollen and deeply bruised. John stands at Sherlock's side, taking it all in with an expression that smacks a bit too much of unfinished business for Greg's comfort.

Sherlock glances down at John. "This explains your knuckles."

John flexes his right hand, then gives Sherlock a half smile. 

"His jaw wasn't broken after all," Greg addresses this to John, "but his nose is." He crosses his arms and gives them each a stern look. "He's been baiting anybody who'll listen, and he's good at it. Stay on your own side of the table. If either of you steps a foot out of line, I'm calling a halt."

Sherlock ignores him and turns to leave. John follows, glancing back at Greg with a tight smile that's probably meant to reassure him that Sherlock is under control. But it's not Sherlock Greg is worried about putting in the same room with Manning. 

Greg turns back to the window to watch them enter the interrogation room. Sherlock looks relaxed, but John is a coiled spring. Greg reaches over to the console and switches on the camera in the corner that will give him a view of John and Sherlock from the front. The observation room is meant to give the observer a clear view of the suspect's face. In this situation, the suspect isn't the one who needs careful watching.

Manning looks very pleased with himself as Sherlock and John take their seats on the opposite side of the table. He smiles at Sherlock. "You're looking well."

"Sorry I can't say the same for you," Sherlock replies in a conversational tone. He removes his gloves and lays them on the table. "You wanted to talk to us. So, talk."

"Did they tell you that I confessed?"

"Did they tell you that no one believes you?"

Manning smirks. "They think they know me. So do you. I could tell what you thought of me when you came to my flat. Harmless kid. Pathetic computer geek with no girlfriend and a flat full of trashy crime novels. The last person in the world you'd think might be a vigilante."

"Convince me."

"Okay, let's start with the last one. The rapist. I paralyzed him with a drug that I got on a weekend trip to Amsterdam. I brought back six doses, and he was the first one I used it on. He thought I was harmless, too, until I jabbed him in the neck with the needle. Dropped him in his tracks. I really didn't expect it to work so fast. I barely had time to get his belt off to strangle him with before he passed out. The look on his face when he realized what was happening..." He smiles. "But I don't have to tell you how well it works, do I?" 

John is sitting on the right, turned slightly toward Manning, and the angle allows Greg to see his hands close into fists in his lap. On the monitor, Sherlock's jaw clenches briefly. Manning looks mildly disappointed, then shrugs. 

"You found him in his underground garage, next to his fancy Jaguar, bound and sodomized with a tire iron. Those details weren't in the news reports. They're something only the killer would know." He leans back, smiling triumphantly.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "You have access to the evidence database. Those details are all there. It proves nothing that you can recite them."

Manning's smirk vanishes. "Why would I confess to a murder if I didn't do it?"

"It's pathetically common, actually. Almost routine. The more media coverage a murder attracts, the more false confessions start to pile up. The one thing they all have in common is the absence of a plausible motive. What was your motive, Daniel? Why would you murder a total stranger?"

He looks indignant. "I told you. He raped a woman and she died from it. He would have done it again. He probably did it before, too. He won't now. I stopped him."

"And all the others? What about them?"

"They--" Manning looks past Sherlock at the one way glass. "They were all murderers who got away with it. The police gave up." His focus comes back to Sherlock. "I didn't."

"Names."

Manning frowns. "You know who they are. I saw the query you were going to run. I know you were searching websites for specific names. I'll tell you enough to prove that I killed them all, but not until you admit you were wrong about me." 

Sherlock tilts his head, eyes narrowed. "How was I wrong about you?"

"You thought I was harmless, just like Hartman did. Just like everyone does. I'm the furthest thing from harmless you can imagine. I was ready to kill you to protect my mission. And I would have succeeded, if I hadn't been interrupted." He looks hard at John. "I would have killed _you_ , too."

John brings his clenched fists up and rests them on the table. Manning seems to be enjoying the reaction, which tells Greg that the man has either a death wish, or a remarkably short memory. Greg sees John's eyes narrow on the monitor and is about to rap on the window to break that intense focus when John's fists finally unclench. Then he sits back, and Greg lowers his hand. 

Manning loses interest in John and shifts his focus to Sherlock. "Admit you were wrong about me, and I'll tell you the rest of the names."

"I will admit that you're not the man I thought you were, but you're no vigilante." Sherlock pushes back his chair and starts to rise. "You're wasting my time." 

"I talked to James Anderson." When this stops both Sherlock and John in mid motion, Manning's face lights with satisfaction.

Sherlock sits back, leaving his chair pushed away from the table. "Continue."

"Didn't you ever wonder how Hartman was killed so soon after his victim died? I knew about it before it was ever in the news because her husband told me himself. It was a real piece of luck. He called looking for his brother on Christmas Eve, and the desk sergeant sent the call down to see if I could look him up. I talked to Anderson for quite a while, actually. He was in bad shape over his wife dying. Shame, really. Holidays are such a sad time. He gave me his brother's name, and ended up telling me a lot more than he meant to, I imagine. I looked him up in the database and, well..." His smile is chilling. "You know the rest." After a long moment with no reaction from John or Sherlock, his smile fades. "Oh, come on. How could I possibly know any of this if I wasn't the killer? Why are you making me work so hard?"

"I believe you, Daniel," Sherlock says quietly. "About Hartman. You're lying about the others, and I'd like to know why."

"I'm not lying, and I can't believe I'm having to beg you to believe me. It's no wonder there are so many unsolved murders!" He looks meaningfully at the window. "You're all idiots."

"Is that why you tried to kill me? Because I'm an idiot?"

Manning's expression shows grudging respect. "I didn't mean you."

"You knew we didn't suspect you of anything but poor database security. What were you afraid we would find out?"

"You were on the scent. You would have realized what you had before long." 

"We were 'on the scent', but it wasn't you we were close to identifying. You know who the real killer is, Daniel. You've been protecting him for years. Killing Hartman was an overture to your hero. Unfortunately for him, you are going to be his downfall."

Manning looks surprised for a moment, then chuckles. "I can't wait to tell the reporters that you lot are so humiliated by me getting away with this for years that you're refusing to accept what's sitting right in front of you. They're going to love it."

"Callum Ellis," Sherlock says mildly. "Do you think he's going to love hearing that you gave us the proof we were lacking?"

Manning's body jolts at the name. "Who?" 

Sherlock gives Manning a knowing smile, then turns to John. "I think we're done here." They both stand up and start for the door.

Manning is instantly frantic. "You don't have any proof at all, and you know it. I haven't told you a thing!" He jerks against the chains holding him to the table and knocks the chair over as he leaps to his feet. "Stop! You're wrong! Don't you dare lie about this to--" 

The door closes behind them, cutting off Manning's rising hysteria. Greg leaves the observation room and meets them in the hall. "He didn't mention talking to James Anderson in his confession, and that's the most persuasive thing he's said."

"I'd like to hear James Anderson's version, but I don't doubt that Manning killed Hartman. Can I assume that you have no further objections to my talking to Ellis?"

"With one condition." When Sherlock's mouth pops open to protest, Greg holds up a hand. "I'll meet you in my office." He turns to the custody sergeant to have Manning returned to his cell, then takes a side trip to pick up a little electronic back up that he anticipates will not be an easy sell. When he gets to his office a few minutes later, John and Sherlock are in the midst of an animated discussion that ceases when they hear him coming. He takes his seat, then places a device that resembles a flash drive on the desk and slides it toward John. "It's a transmitter that will be monitored by the surveillance team." He puts its receiver down on the desk in front of himself. "And me. If there is any sign of trouble, they'll be there to back you up."

John looks at Sherlock, then at Greg. "Me? Why me?"

"Because you won't toss it in a rubbish bin on your way out." Greg gives Sherlock a moment for the expected eye roll, then continues, "Just keep it in your pocket. It will pick up a whisper within a twenty foot radius."

John slips it into the chest pocket of his coat. "Will you be recording, in case he confesses?"

Sherlock sighs. "It doesn't matter, John. He's not going to confess on the spot."

John's brow creases. "Then what are we doing?"

"Planting the seeds." He gets up and leaves the office in a swirl of coattails.

John and Greg exchange a mystified look. Greg shakes his head. "Your guess is as good as mine."

 

* * *

In the cab on the way to see Ellis, John tries again to get Sherlock to tell him what he's got in mind. "It would help if I had some idea what we're doing."

"We're going to give his conscience something new to consider. He does have one, John. And right now, it's his greatest liability."

"Most people don't consider a conscience to be a liability."

Sherlock's response is a disturbingly pleased smirk.

Callum Ellis opens his door as far as the security chain allows, revealing a three-inch wide slice of his face. He is not pleased to see them. "How did you get in?"

"We just need a few minutes of your time, Mr. Ellis," Sherlock ignores the question. 

"Why?"

"It's a matter of some urgency."

Ellis looks back over his shoulder. "I'm in the middle of a project." When this fails to elicit a response, he sighs. The door closes briefly while he unfastens the chain, then swings wide for them to enter.

Sherlock and John walk into the room. Ellis closes the door and comes in a few steps, then stops with his arms crossed. "Did you friends in the van pick the lock for you?"

They turn to face Ellis. Sherlock comes straight to the point. "What can you tell me about Daniel Manning?"

Ellis raises his eyebrows. "You think he's the hacker you were looking for the last time you were here?" His voice conveys how preposterous he finds this notion. "He wouldn't have to hack it. He has full access as the database admin. You must really be desperate." He adds a soft snort.

"Manning killed a man a few days ago with succinylcholine. Last night, he tried to do the same to me."

Ellis uncrosses his arms and lets them fall to his sides. His face is a mask of shock. "What?"

"You seem surprised, Mr. Ellis."

"Hell yes, I'm surprised. What little I know about the kid... Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you're the reason he did it." Sherlock watches Ellis for the moment the accusation hits home. 

Ellis manages to keep his expression neutral, but the shocked blink gets away from him. "I barely know him."

"Ah, but he knows you, and he knows what you've been up to for the past eight years. Ironically, he would probably have made a decent detective. He picked up a pattern that almost everyone else missed. It turns out that you're quite the inspiration. You never suspected?"

Ellis seems to be having some difficulty finding his voice. "Suspected what?"

"That you had a protégé."

"What 'protégé'? What the hell are you talking about? Did he say something about me?"

"No, and he never will. You're his hero. He's been protecting your secret since he discovered it. He's so determined to keep your name out of it that he's confessed to every murder he thinks you committed."

"Keep my name out of what? Are you saying he thinks I killed someone?" 

The tone of incredulity would be convincing, but for the guilt Sherlock hears beneath it. "You've been very careful. Who would know better than a former homicide investigator how to kill someone and get away with it?"

Ellis looks from Sherlock to John. "If you believe that, you're both insane. When you were here the last time, I thought you were accusing me of doing something to the database. If you are seriously suggesting that I'm involved in whatever fantasy this kid has cooked up, you need to leave." He walks back to the door.

"That's the problem with taking up a cause. You run the risk of attracting disciples. In your case, you drew a misfit loner with an even more self-serving sense of justice than your own. But you're worse than Manning. Unlike him, you actually have a conscience, of a sort. You've just chosen to disregard it."

Ellis turns to face them. "I haven't killed anyone. I had nothing to do with what Manning may have done. If you had any evidence to the contrary, I would be in custody. Now please leave. And don't contact me again."

"There's no evidence to convict you in a court case, but you know that better than anyone. A bit ironic, considering that it's the very situation you set off on this mission to correct. I think you believed you were doing the right thing, but it's all changed now. You're responsible for what Manning has become. You're responsible for what he did to Hartman, and what he tried to do to me." Sherlock pauses to let that sink in. "Manning isn't just collateral damage. If you allow him to take the blame for everything you did, you'll be confirming that it never was the noble mission you intended. If you won't stand up and do the right thing now, then it's all been a sham from the start. You may want to consider how different you really are from the men you killed. You're going to get away with it, too."

Ellis turns back to the door, opens it wide, and comes back into the room. He walks past Sherlock without a glance and goes all the way to the windows, keeping his back to them.

Sherlock and John walk out of the flat, leaving the door open behind them.

When they reach the street, John asks, "Now what?"

Sherlock steps to the kerb and raises his hand to a cab halfway down the block. "Now we wait."

* * *

When John and Sherlock return to his office, Greg is ready for them. "I didn't hear a confession. In fact, I'd say his denial was pretty damn believable."

John takes the microphone from his pocket and sets it on Greg's desk on his way to his chair. "I think he was ready for us. He knew about the surveillance."

Greg watches Sherlock take his seat and waits for a comment. What he gets is a perturbingly relaxed smile. "What am I missing?"

Sherlock smirks. "In this case, or generally speaking?"

Greg levels his gaze, in no mood for banter.

Sherlock sighs theatrically and drops his hands to his lap. "I told you he wasn't going to confess right now. He was appalled by what Manning has done. He won't let a psychopath invalidate his life's work. We just need to wait him out." 

Greg sits back. "If Manning taking the blame is your leverage with Ellis, you may be about to lose it. Manning really went ballistic after you left. He's threatening to recant his confession unless we accept that he killed everyone attributed to the serial killer."

"Can he do that?" John looks at Greg. 

"He can't go into court on a murder charge without a lawyer, and any lawyer is going to demand a psychiatric evaluation. With the way he's ranting and demanding to be charged with multiple murders he couldn't possibly have committed, there's no telling how it's going to work out. Personally, I would believe he's crazy. The CP may have to take what he can get."

"He'll spend the rest of his life in custody. Whether it's a psychiatric hospital or prison is unimportant." Sherlock slaps his knees and turns to John. "Our work here is done. I'm famished." He gets up and starts for the door.

"That's it?" Greg frowns at Sherlock's retreating back.

"Yes," Sherlock replies without slowing down.

* * *

The cab ride to Angelo's is silent. Sherlock's intense focus on his phone would give Mycroft's PA a run for her money, and John's attempts at conversation have been met with occasional grunts, but not a single glance up from the screen. When they pull up in front of the restaurant, Sherlock leaps out, as usual, leaving John to pay. When John catches up to him, Sherlock is ensconced at the table in the front window, now devoting his full attention to the menu that even John could recite from memory.

"Lasagna will be the quickest," Sherlock tells him without looking up. "And a bottle of wine." He glances up with a half smile, then back to the menu.

The waiter takes their order, and returns with their food a few minutes later which inspires an I-told-you-so smirk from Sherlock. John's appetite comes abruptly to life at the savory aromas wafting from his own plate. When the wine appears, John's first sip reminds him how little sleep he's had, and he pushes the glass to the side.

Ten minutes later, John's plate of lasagna is barely half gone, but Sherlock is on his second serving, putting it away as if he hasn't seen a meal in a month. The longer John watches him, the less sense it makes. "When you come up for air, I've got a question."

Sherlock waves his fork in John's direction before he plunges it into his food. "Ask away."

"I'd like to have your undivided attention, if that's possible."

The forkful of lasagna disappears, and the empty fork is placed primly on the edge of the plate. Sherlock swallows and lifts a questioning brow.

"Thank you. You seem to have put Ellis completely out of your mind. I'd like to know why."

Sherlock gives him a look that he reserves for the most obvious of stupid questions. "There's nothing more we can do. He'll either confess, or he won't. What would be the point of dwelling on it?"

John manages not to laugh out loud. "Not buying it. You don't let go of anything this quickly, least of all a suspect who is apparently going to get away with multiple murders. What do you know that you're not telling me?"

"To be fair, that is a rather broad field."

John's eyes narrow over a tight smile. "Now I know you're hiding something."

"Maybe my near death experience has had a mellowing effect."

John takes a sharp breath at the rush of too-recent images that inspires, and Sherlock has the decency to wince.

"Sorry. I see it didn't do much for my sense of humor." He pushes his plate out of the way and leans in. "What more do you think we can do at this point? There is no evidence that Ellis has done anything wrong. Even if he could be charged, the most cursory defense would establish reasonable doubt." Sherlock sits back. "All we can hope is that his conscience will bring him around. If not, then he's committed a string of perfect murders. We've planted the seeds of guilt. Whatever comes of it is out of our control."

"And you're fine with that outcome? Since when?"

Sherlock brings the plate to its former spot, then picks up his fork. "Let's just say that I've come to recognize the futility of railing against the inevitable. We're out of options, John. Let it go." He digs in to the food, focused on his plate and carefully avoiding John's eyes.

* * * 

End of chapter 8


	9. Fiat justitia ruat caelum

* * *

It's New Year's Eve, and the last thing John wants to do is go to a party, but telling Mary that he'd prefer to skip the festivities that her friend Cath has apparently been planning for a month would be a fine way to thank her for giving up their planned holiday so he could work with Sherlock. So, he's going, and he's doing it with a smile on his face because it's the least he can do.

The fact that he hasn't heard from Sherlock since they left Angelo's in separate cabs three nights ago isn't helping his mood. If there had been any developments with the case, someone would have let him know. Probably Greg. John is still convinced that Sherlock would not have invited him on the case at all if he hadn't been in the flat when Molly called about it. Sherlock has made the transition to working alone so easily that John can't help wondering if his help was ever really needed. Except that this time, Sherlock would have died without him, and that's the thought that keeps haunting him. Not what nearly happened, but what will happen the next time, because there will be a next time. It's inevitable.

"John, are you all right?" The little crease between her brows tells him that Mary has been standing there in the bathroom doorway watching him for a few minutes. 

He looks down at his hand and realizes he's holding his razor, and a glance in the mirror tells him that the shaving foam has dried on his face. "I'm fine. Woolgathering, I guess." He takes a flannel from the rack and wets it under the tap to wipe his face and start over.

"You've been staring at yourself in the mirror for ten minutes now. What's wrong?"

He turns to give her a reassuring smile that widens into an appreciative grin. "You look very fetching." She's wearing black knee high boots, a slim black skirt, and a sapphire blue sparkly jumper that matches her eyes. He leans in to give her a peck on the cheek and gets an enticing whiff of her perfume.

She's studying him closely when he steps back. "You don't want to go to this party." She says it without rancor, but she's not smiling.

"It's been a rough week. I'm just not back up to speed." He has the decency to look instantly contrite. "You've had it worse than I have, and you look great. I'll be fine."

"But you don't want to go."

He exhales and opts for honesty. "Not really, no. But you know how I feel about parties."

She purses her lips. "I'll call Cath and tell her something has come up." She turns to leave, and he gently takes her elbow.

"No, don't do that." He smiles. "I want to show you off." She really does look lovely.

That earns him a smile. "If you're sure?"

"Of course. I--"

His mobile starts vibrating on the bedside table, and Mary picks it up. She frowns, and turns the screen so he can read it, then hands it to him.

John brings the phone to his ear. "Greg, what's up?"

"Have you heard from Sherlock?"

There's something in Greg's voice that makes John's mouth go dry. "No. What's happened?" 

Mary was on her way out of the bedroom, and the alarm in John's voice turns her around.

"I just got a call from the surveillance team. Ellis is dead. And Sherlock is there."

It takes John a moment to find his voice. "Is he all right?"

"Yeah, he's fine. I think. I'm on my way there now. I was hoping he'd called you."

"I'll meet you there."

"No, you don't have to come. I'll let you know what's going on when I find out myself."

"I will meet you there," John repeats, looking at Mary. "Don't let Sherlock leave." He ends the call. "Mary, I'm sorry. I really am."

"What happened, John?"

"One of the suspects in the case we were working was just found dead in his flat, and Sherlock is there. I have to go. I'll join you at the party as soon as I can." He finishes wiping off the shaving foam and starts hunting for a shirt.

Mary watches him for a moment, then walks to the dresser, opens a drawer and pulls out his favorite jumper. As she presses it into his hands, she manages to turn the simple gesture into a calming moment. She smiles softly. "Call me when you can."

* * * 

It takes nearly an hour to reach Ellis' flat, and John spends every moment trying to think of a scenario that puts Sherlock there with Ellis' dead body that doesn't turn John's blood to ice. Did Ellis call him? Did he just show up at the man's door? Was there a confrontation? There are too many people who would love to believe that Sherlock had something to do with this, and some of them are with the Met. Too many, actually. How much help can even Greg be after what happened two years ago? His credibility on anything related to Sherlock is pretty much shot. Whatever happened, John can only hope that the evidence is irrefutable. 

There are two police cars and an ambulance in the street in front of the building, lights flashing. John gets out of the cab and identifies himself to the constable at the building entrance just as Greg appears. John heads straight for the stairs, but Greg stops him.

"It looks like Ellis shot himself in the head."

John frowns at the phrasing. "What do you mean 'it looks like'?" He glances up the stairs. "Where's Sherlock?"

"He's giving his statement to the investigating officer. I wanted to fill you in before you go up there."

The chill that goes through John has nothing to do with the icy draft coming through the open door. "What are you saying?"

"Ellis apparently emailed his suicide note to Sherlock's website. Sherlock said he came here as soon as he got it, and he found Ellis already dead."

Again, the phrasing is disturbing. "I don't understand."

Greg takes a breath and puffs his cheeks blowing it out. "That makes two of us."

"I'm going up." He and Greg have a brief stare down, then head up the stairs with John in the lead.

The flat door is open, and there is a constable on guard. At the opposite end of the hall, proof that life goes on in the sounds of a holiday party in noisy progress is stark contrast to what John finds when he follows Greg into the flat.

Callum Ellis' body is slumped on the sofa, and the wall behind him is sprayed with blood in a wide swath that includes globs of brain matter. The smell of gore and gunpowder is nauseatingly fresh. The body's eyes are wide open, and there is an automatic pistol on the floor near the left foot. The forensics team in blue coveralls are busy taking photos and measurements.

Sherlock is standing in the middle of the room with his arms crossed, talking to a man in a suit and overcoat who John assumes to be the DI in charge of the scene. Sherlock glances toward Greg and John briefly, then returns his attention to the man in front of him. 

"You said he emailed a note to Sherlock. Have you seen it?"

Greg walks over to one of the crime scene techs and comes back with a plastic evidence bag. He hands it to John. "Sherlock brought that with him. Printed it out at home."

The note is time stamped two hours earlier, and it's addressed to Sherlock at the Science of Deduction site. Halfway down the page, it changes from a suicide note to a confession. John can see that there are multiple pages, but only the text of the first page is visible without opening the bag. "Did you read it?"

"I skimmed it. The murders he confesses to are on the last page. Some of them weren't on your list, but the match is close enough to prove that Ellis is your vigilante."

"That's good, then." Obviously, Sherlock can't be accused of writing the note himself if it includes victims they didn't know about.

The rattle of a gurney makes them both turn toward the door, then step out of the way to let the ambulance team through. As they pass Sherlock, he comes over to join John and Greg. He seems surprised to see John. "Did Lestrade call you?"

"Of course, he did. Why didn't you?" The question comes out more sharply than he intended.

"Why would I drag you away from your holiday party for this?"

"For--" He takes a breath. "For this? Sherlock, what happened?"

"Obviously, Ellis killed himself. He sent me what amounted to an invitation to discover his body, and I accepted. He even left the door unlocked." 

Sherlock's tone is a bit too matter-of-fact, even for him. "How did you get into the building?" John can't imagine that the surveillance team would ignore someone picking the lock on the front door.

Sherlock's expression goes carefully neutral. "There are parties going on. I came in with a group of revelers."

Greg clears his throat, and they both look at him. "Did they test your hands for gunpowder residue?"

John shoves down his gut reaction because Greg's question is entirely appropriate as well as a good idea. Sherlock doesn't hesitate. "Of course. I insisted."

Greg nods his approval. "Did you finish up with DI Willis, then?"

Sherlock glances at the man in question who has pocketed his notebook and is watching the ambulance team collect the body. He turns back to Greg. "He wants me to come in for an interview in the morning." He looks at John. "Want to start your New Year at Scotland Yard?" He adds a half smile that feels a little forced to John.

"Of course, if you want me there. You're not going to make me wait until then to find out what happened, I hope."

"Or me," Greg adds.

Sherlock gives them a puzzled look. "There's nothing more to tell. He was dead when I got here. Apparently, he sent the email on at least a half hour delay to make sure I couldn't get here in time to stop him. They'll be able to verify that by checking the original on his account. The note is a confession. The case is closed." He looks at John. "Don't you have a party to get back to?"

John and Greg exchange a look. Greg scrubs a hand over his face. "I don't, but I guess this can wait until tomorrow." He looks from Sherlock to John. "I'll leave you to it, then. This isn't my crime scene, and I've seen all I need to see. Good night." He turns and walks out of the flat.

John and Sherlock wait while the gurney bearing the body in a black plastic zipper bag is rolled out of the flat. John hands the evidence bag to one of the crime scene techs, then follows Sherlock down the stairs behind the ambulance team.

It's not going to be easy to find a cab on New Year's Eve, so they set out walking for the main road where the chances will improve. The temperature has dropped, and John wishes he'd donned a heavier coat. By the time they locate a cab, he's shivering. The contrast of the warm air in the cab makes him sneeze.

John is lost in thought the entire way to Baker Street. Pieces begin to click into place, and the pattern that starts to take shape won't wait until tomorrow for an explanation. When the cab pulls up in front of 221B, Sherlock pulls out his wallet to pay the fare and gives the cabbie John's address.

"I'm coming up," John says, and opens his door before Sherlock can protest. He's halfway up the stairs before Sherlock catches up. He takes a turn into the kitchen and starts making tea without removing his coat.

Sherlock goes through the living room door and comes into the kitchen a moment later, having paused to start the fireplace and remove his coat and gloves. He watches John silently for a moment. "Make yourself at home," he comments drily. 

John turns and crosses his arms. "You knew he was going to kill himself."

Sherlock's eyes narrow. "He announced it in an email."

"You know what I mean."

"Perhaps you'd care to spell it out for me."

John switches off the kettle and opens the cabinet where they always kept the scotch. The bottle is still there, and he pulls it out along with a tumbler. "Let's drink to the New Year." He looks at Sherlock who nods, and he pulls out another glass. He pours a drink for each of them and hands one to Sherlock. John takes a long pull from his glass, then sets it down and recrosses his arms. Sherlock takes a small sip and waits. 

"What did the note say?"

Sherlock puts down his glass and walks out to the living room. John watches him boot up his laptop and tap a few keys. He comes back to the kitchen and hands John three sheets of text.

"Read it."

John sits down at the kitchen table with his drink and Callum Ellis' suicide note, and begins to read.

_Sherlock,_

_I feel that I can address you by your first name, considering you'll be the last human contact of my life. Moreover, you're the trigger that ended it, so I believe the familiar form is appropriate._

_This is why you came to see me. You wanted me to 'do the right thing', and by that you did not mean I should confess to the police and face my punishment. You believed there would be little chance of any punishment being meted out by the courts, and you're right. There's not a shred of evidence to link me to any of the executions I carried out. I would be in the same category as all the others who confess to crimes for which there is no evidence. The 'frequent flyers'. The difference is that they have no plausible motives. My motive is clear, however unacceptable it might be to most people. I think you understand, if not condone, what I did. What I'm about to tell you is not intended as an excuse because I don't require your pardon or anyone else's. It's simply a statement of fact._

_I worked with Harry Wallace for six years. I was best man at his wedding. The night his wife was attacked in their home, we were on a stake-out. She was so brutally raped that she never spoke another word for the rest of her life. Not to her husband. Not to anyone. A few months later, she managed to hang herself in her room at the psychiatric hospital where she had been since shortly after the attack. The man who raped her had been out on parole for less than a week after spending five years in prison for doing the same thing to his girlfriend. If the justice system had any element of justice in it, Timothy Lawson would never have been let out of prison to do what he did to Jessica. Her death was senseless and preventable, but I refused to let it be in vain. She inspired my mission. One innocent life lost, but countless others saved in her name._

_The men I executed were anything but innocent. They were beyond any hope of redemption, and I don't mean that in a spiritual sense. Had they been allowed to live, they would have killed again, figuratively if not literally. They would have damaged every life they touched. I stopped them._

_The difference between what you do and what I do is only a matter of degree. I know this because you came to me with the intention of persuading me to end my life as payment for what I've done. You appointed yourself my conscience and my virtual executioner. If I had refused to comply, I wonder what your next move would have been. I can't imagine that you would have allowed me to go unpunished. I wonder how far you would have gone to make sure that didn't happen. You might want to ask yourself that question the way you told me to question myself. How different from me are you in the end?_

_Daniel Manning is more than collateral damage. You might be surprised to learn that I am happy to take credit for whatever role I may have inadvertently played in getting him off the streets. I didn't make him what he is. That part of him was always there. That he chose to reveal himself by killing a man like Michael Hartman is a blessing. A psychopath who managed to remain hidden for as long as Manning did was bound to show his true colors eventually. He chose a man who would have gone on to destroy more lives. I call it poetic justice in its purest form._

_I'm not a psychopath. I'm very much like the men I worked with for years, and many of them share my frustration with a system that's designed to protect the guilty at the expense of anything resembling justice. I'm not ending my life because I feel remorse, but I can't continue my work now, and I refuse to be castigated for doing what others lack the courage to do. My final tribute to justice will be to execute myself. I'm paying for the deaths of the unworthy with my own life. And I'm performing an act of charity in the bargain. I'm saving you, Sherlock._

_I saw what you are. I saw what you are capable of, all in one brief conversation. That's my gift. I read people, and I read you very clearly. I said earlier that I wondered what you might have done next, if I refused to 'do the right thing', but I know. You would have found a way to stop me with your own brand of justice, and that would have put you in my shoes as surely as I have put myself in the place of the men I executed. You may have already done this to someone else. You may do it again. But I won't be the cause._

_I know you will feel no remorse for what you've persuaded me to do. You'll feel vindicated. I know that feeling well. Take care you don't enjoy it too much. Fiat justitia ruat caelum. Let justice be done, though the heavens fall. It's a noble sentiment, and one to which I've sacrificed my life. If you truly are on the same path, make very sure that you're prepared to accept the consequences._

_Callum William Ellis_

The final page lists the names of his victims and a detailed description of what, how, and why. 

John lays the note on the table and picks up his tumbler. He takes a long sip, watching Sherlock over the rim of the glass. It makes perfect sense now. Of course, that's what Sherlock was doing when they met with Ellis that last time, and he was so confident that he had accomplished his mission that he considered the case all but closed. He was just waiting for Ellis to react. For all Sherlock knew, Ellis could have been in the process of slashing his wrists while they were eating lasagna. In light of this information, the memory of Sherlock's ebullient mood and hearty appetite generates a gut reaction in John that he's having a hard time classifying. He wishes surprise was part of it. He wishes it more than he can say.

"You have questions."

John takes a deep breath. "I don't know what to think."

"About Ellis? Or about me?" Sherlock says quietly.

"Was he right? Did you know he was going to kill himself?"

Sherlock studies him for a long moment, but without the deduction-mode intensity, as if he's looking for something he's not sure how to find. "It's the sort of action that would fit with his pattern of behavior, but it wasn't the only option open to him."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"Are you asking if I deliberately talked him into taking his own life?"

"Greg thinks you've changed. I disagreed, but now..." There's no good way to continue that thought, so he stops.

"We've all changed, John. But I didn't become someone who would murder a suspect to stop him getting away with murder. You used to know that. What changed your mind?" His tone is conversational, as if they're discussing the weather.

John is suddenly angry, and he doesn't want to be. "I haven't changed, Sherlock, though God knows I've had enough treachery thrown at me in the past few years to..." He looks away and takes a deep breath. "The man I trusted with my life damn near ended it along with his own. No, wait. He just let me think he'd ended his life. He forgot to let me in on the joke."

Sherlock flinches visibly, as if the slap was physical. "You're never going to forgive me."

"I forgave you for what you did, Sherlock, but I can't ignore what it did to me. You can't understand how it feels, I know that. I can't fault you for what you don't have the capacity to grasp, but dammit you have to accept that you caused real, life-threatening pain, and not just to me. You may not be able to feel it yourself, but you sure as hell know how to read it in others. What you did to Ellis is just the latest proof that you know how to read emotions and use them to your advantage. I asked you once if it mattered to you that there are actual human lives involved in what we do. Ellis was a murderer, but his life mattered. At least, it should have. What kills me is that I can still be reading you wrong after all this time. You still shock me with this shit, and that's as much my fault as yours." He has to stop and get himself under control before this escalates past the point of no return. He doesn't want that to happen. Not now. Not ever.

Sherlock presses his lips tightly for a moment. "I won't allow emotion to distract me from what needs to be done, but I'm surprised that you could interpret that as my not having the ability to feel. Is that what you really believe, or is this a demonstration of you allowing your emotions to color your judgment? Because if it is, you're proving my point."

"I'm angry, Sherlock, but I'm more disappointed than anything, and mostly with myself. You will always be able to trick me. Somehow, I always believe you until you prove me wrong. And I will probably believe you the next time, too. It's just the way I am." He gets up and pushes his chair back with enough force to nearly knock it over. "I could tell you that it hurts every time, but you know that. You just can't understand what that means." John drains his glass and puts it in the sink, then heads for the door.

"John." 

Sherlock's voice is so soft that it brings John to a halt. He turns around and finds Sherlock's expression is filled with whatever made his voice sound like that. John feels some of his anger slip away. "What, Sherlock?"

"You asked me if I remembered anything from when Manning drugged me. I do." 

He has seen Sherlock mimic human emotions with consummate skill, and he can't be sure that the pain he's seeing now, and hearing in Sherlock's voice, is real. "What do you remember?"

Sherlock takes a deep breath. "I remember being certain that I was going to die. I remember knowing that you would be the one to find my body, and hating what it would do to you. I knew you would blame yourself for not getting there in time to save me even though you did everything you could to stop me. And then you were there, but I knew Manning was still there, too. I couldn't tell you that you were in danger. All I could do was wait for him to come back and do the same thing to you." His voice is thinning out, tightening, and the words start to come out in a rush. "I heard Manning coming, but you didn't. You were trying to keep me alive, and then he hit you from behind, and my last thought before I lost consciousness was that I had gotten you killed." He takes another breath, this one shaky. "Then I woke up in the hospital and asked where you were, and no one would tell me." His voice has dropped nearly to a whisper. "I was sure you were dead."

John walks back to where Sherlock is standing and looks up into haunted eyes. "Sherlock, I was there every moment. You were never alone, and you never woke up until the morning when Greg and I were both there. You must have been dreaming. I never left you." He can hear the emotion in his own voice, and resents a bit that it's there. If this is another manipulation, he's going to put his hands around that elegant throat and squeeze until his eyes pop.

"It wasn't a dream."

"Yes, it had to be. We--"

"It was the worst nightmare I've ever experienced." he interrupts, then smiles a little weakly. "And that's saying something."

John feels a rush of affection for his friend that comes with a tiny niggling voice in the back of his mind warning him that this is Sherlock, and Sherlock can trick him like no one else on earth. He will always be able to do it. The man has also saved his life in every possible way, starting from the day they met. Saved it, and destroyed it, and resurrected it. And he will always have the ability to do it again. Not because John is a fool, but because in spite of everything, he loves this mad bastard more than life itself. Warts and all. "I'll be having more than a few nightmares of my own. You scared the hell out of me, Sherlock. Finding you like that was the second worst moment of my life." 

"I know that, John. I'm sorry."

John takes a step back, and Sherlock's eyes darken at what he must sense is coming. "I believe you mean that, Sherlock. Now I need you to tell me the truth about Ellis. Did you intend for him to kill himself? Could you have stopped him?"

Sherlock's eyes fill with an emotion that John has only seen in him a few times before, and never in this context. Sherlock is afraid to tell him the truth. "John, I..." Sherlock closes his eyes, clenches them as if he's in pain. 

"Sherlock..." He's not sure if he's asking Sherlock to continue, or to stop before he deals the blow that John can feel coming as surely as if he'd raised a fist.

Sherlock's eyes open, and his gaze is intense. "No, you need to hear this. I won't have you thinking what you obviously are. What I set out to do is not what I finally tried to do, and that changed because of you. You underestimate your influence, John. You always have." He takes a breath. "Everything I said to Ellis was meant to persuade him to kill himself because it was the only justice he was going to face. You know we didn't have any evidence to convict him, and so did he. I had no regrets when we left his flat that last time, and I know how that must sound to you." He points his chin at the pages on the table. "And then I got his note. You read what he said about me, and he was right about some of it, but he didn't know that my own conscience isn't the only one that influences my decisions. When I read all of that, I realized that I wasn't ready to accept the consequences after all. Those consequences have everything to do with you, and what you would think of what I was doing. You would want me to value Ellis myself enough to save his life, whatever it was worth. I couldn't do that, but I tried to stop what I set in motion because I realized that you would find it reprehensible. I do feel things, no matter what you think. And I didn't want to feel what I'm feeling right now, seeing what I do in your face. I went there to save him. It may have been for the wrong reasons, but I did try. I was too late. He meant for me to be too late. He won." His voice is nearly inaudible on those last two words, but his gaze hasn't wavered. He's waiting for John's reaction.

Not for the first time, John wishes he could borrow Sherlock's deductive powers for just a moment. Just long enough to see past the wall that Sherlock always manages to keep between them, even when he seems to want to bring it down. John believes that he's just heard the truth he asked for. He even understands Sherlock's motives for doing what he did. Maybe agrees with them in some ways that he can't even explain to himself. There is one thing that he doesn't doubt. Sherlock wants to keep their friendship intact, and no matter how vast the differences between them might sometimes seem, that will always be John's deepest wish as well.

"He didn't win, Sherlock. It wasn't a game he was ever equipped to play. Not with you. You are still the best man I have ever known, and you're as human as the rest of us whether you believe that or not. All I've ever asked is that you tell me the truth. I will never hold it against you. Just remember that, okay? We'll be fine as long as you do that."

Sherlock's eyes warm instantly and one corner of his mouth quirks up in a brief smile before he presses it away. "You may not always like what you hear."

"I'll take my chances. Was that a promise?"

"Yes." Sherlock exhales and his whole posture relaxes with it. "And now, I believe it's time for you to go join your fiancé. Please tender my apologies for ruining her holiday."

John looks at his watch. "I'll have some groveling to do, but you have nothing to apologize for. Mary thinks you walk on water."

Sherlock snorts. "She doesn't know me very well."

"Better than you think." He heads for the door. "I'll see you in the morning."

"You don't have to come. I'll be fine."

"I'm coming. Someone has to keep you from alienating Scotland Yard one day into the new year." He turns to leave.

Sherlock's voice stops him at the door. "Happy New Year, John."

There's a soft waver in Sherlock's voice. John turns and sees the softness is back in his eyes as well. "Happy New Year, Sherlock."

Just as he walks out onto the pavement, as the door is closing behind him, John hears the first strains of the violin drift down the stairs.

* * *

**A/N - This is the end. I hope you enjoyed the story, and I hope you'll let me know what you thought. This story takes place just after Something Broken, and just before Mary and John start planning their wedding with the help of a certain consulting detective. I'm considering another story, not as long as this one, about the wedding planning and the wedding itself. Well, the reception and its aftermath. Maybe not the actual wedding. If there's any interest, let me know. I can be persuaded, if you would like to see more.**

**Thanks to Jolie Black, sevenpercent, ThessalyMc, and my anonymous medical beta for superhuman patience, encouragement, and invaluable creative suggestions. -- Ghyllwyne  
04 November 2015**


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